


In The Lion's Claws

by Spencebox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Attempted Murder, Bottom Sansa Stark, Cunnilingus, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Cersei Lannister, Even Tywin is Fluffy sometimes, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, He's King of the Seven Kingdoms, Innocent Sansa Stark, Jamie Lannister is Himbo, Joanna Lannister is Long Dead, Joffrey Baratheon Being an Asshole, Joffrey Baratheon is a Little Shit, King Tywin Lannister, Margaery Tyrell Is Not Nice, Mutual Pining, Non-Cannon Things, Not Cannon Things Happening, Older Man/Younger Woman, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Possessive Tywin, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sansa is 16 then 17 eventually, Smut, Top Tywin Lannister, Tywin Lannister Being Tywin Lannister, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Tywin Loves Pussy, Tywin is nice to Sansa, Virgin Sansa Stark, Ya'll I love these two get off my ass plz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox
Summary: “It is a decree of marriage, Sansa. Every maiden must report to King’s Landing within a fortnight to meet the King, where he will decide on a future bride,” sighed Ned. “Youmust go to King’s Landing, sweetheart.”Sansa knew she was too soft for the throne; sewing and sneaking Lemon Cakes were not the actions of a queen. Therefore, this trip to the Capital would simply be one for… seeing the sights that King’s Landing had to offer.To be away from the Winterfell, for once at least, and-Oh! To be a Queen!She nearly laughed.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 111
Kudos: 315





	1. At The Godswood

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll... I'm a slut for this shit.

**_ Winterfell _ **

The letter from King’s Landing came two moons after the first bloom of spring; grass had begun to regrow upon the murky acres of dirt and decay from the harsh winter, and the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood had begun to bloom anew. Blood red petals now shadowed the clear ground, and the face carved into the tree would no longer weep tears of ice, but would bleed its precious flowers. 

Soon, the frozen lake would thaw- the body of water ever unmoving for the tree with faces. It was a Holy Place, one to pray to the Old Gods that had created their world, and the Heart Tree that flourished after spring was seen as a sign that the Gods were content with the will of man. 

The year in which winter had lasted thirteen moons, the Weirwood tree had not bloomed a single crimson flower. It had been a sign that the Gods were displeased, and death had followed in the winter’s wake.

Fear followed death, as well as the burning smell of flesh when sacrifice was the last resort. Fathers, Mothers, Daughters and Sons all burned to please the Gods. 

Why would a place of worship heed such pain? 

“Sansa?” 

Underneath the face of the Weirwood tree, a girl of six and ten rested on her knees, head bowed in silent prayer. Her lips moved in silence. Finishing her prayer, she stood tall before the face of the Heart Tree and bowed. 

“What’re you doing?” Her younger sister stopped across the pond. “It’s just a silly tree. It can’t talk back.”

Walking away, through the melting snow, Sansa smiled at her sister, “It’s the Godswood, Arya. One of the most respected places in Winterfell, and I see no problem with giving it my thanks.” 

“Thanks for what? It’s never given you anything.” 

“It could, if it wanted to.” Standing before her significantly shorter sister, Sansa clasped her chilled hands together. “Is there something you need, Arya? I was busy, you know. I’m sure Robb could help you improve your archery if you asked.”

Arya snorted, “Yeah, sorry, didn’t see you talking to your tree. And Robb is busy with Jon and Rickon.” Huffing a breath, she kicked the soft dirt; “They treat me like a girl. Like I’ll cut myself if I touch a sword or I’ll shoot my own head off with an arrow. They’re stupid.” 

Sansa could see the tension in her sisters’ shoulders; she despised being treated like a child, even if she were only three and ten.

The need to be aggressive, to fight, to kill, had been sated in the Stark blood since their father had rode with Baratheon’s and Lannister’s to overthrow the Mad King.

Hell had rained on Westeros under the Mad King, and blood had been the price for peace. Since then, acts of flaying, torture, beheading, had come to a halt. The only House to refuse their ways were deep in the North- the Bolton’s. 

“It isn’t stupid to care,” Sansa chided.

“You’re their little sister, they’ll worry no matter what you do. Do you really think Jon didn’t try to stop me from sewing the first time I pricked my finger? He almost threw my needle out the window before I stopped him.” 

They chuckled under the flowers of the Heart Tree, and Sansa grew pleased at the disappearance of Arya’s sour mood. There weren’t many moments where the two of them got along, which partly had to do with their differences in ages.

Being an older woman meant more serious talks about marriage and husbands, duties in the marriage bed but also tasks that bore a creative Lady. Playing the Harp and dilly-dallying in the kitchens- while trying to sneak away Lemon Cakes, had been rather unsuccessful.

But creating stunning designs of cloth had been her forte, which led a further divide between the two. It wasn’t Sansa’s fault she wanted to be a _lady._

“Boys are stupid. I never want to get married to some stupid boy with his sword and shield who thinks he’s better than me.” Arya grinned with a feral look in her eyes. “I won’t let a man like Tywin Lannister marry me.” 

“Tywin?” Sansa asked, scrunching her face in an un-ladylike way. Mother would disapprove, no doubt. “Why would you even think about marrying him? He hasn’t taken a new wife since…” 

“I forgot,” Arya spilled whilst searching her pockets. “A letter from King’s Landing arrived. I saw it before giving it to Father and it was from Tywin Lannister. I didn’t see what it said, but-” she shrugged, “why else would the King send a letter? Right?” 

Tywin Lannister, King of the Andals, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lord of Casterly Rock and Kings Landing, Slayer of Dragons and Savior of Man…was not a man to be trifled with.

Sansa, in all her six and ten years, had never been in the presence of the strongest man in Westeros. It was said he could smell fear and taste lies. That nothing got past his keen senses- had he been the Lord of Winterfell, he would’ve rightfully been titled The _Wolf_ of Winterfell. But alas, he was the Lion of King’s Landing, and Sansa’s nail dug into her palm. 

Arya had a point; what reason would Lord Tywin have for sending a letter all the way to the heart of the North, if not to demand something in return. It was possible to assume that Arya was correct, that he was looking for a bride.

The Lady Joanna had bled to death not two decades before, the youngest son Tyrion- The Imp, they called him- had split her apart in the birthing chamber. Sansa prayed to the face in the Godswoods that her child would not kill her, that she would live to see her child like Lady Joanna had not. 

“You’re certain it was from Lord Tywin? Not Ser Jamie or Lord Tyrion?” 

“I can read just fine. I know what it said.”

Arya stomped her foot into the damp ground, “It said-” she deepened her voice, “To Lord and Lady Stark, I hereby decree that every eligible-”

Her voice faded into nothingness as the flowers from the Heart Tree shook, the ground rumbling uneasily as a rider approached. The figure atop the stallion was none other than Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell.

His mop of chocolate curls danced in the wind, his coat billowing from his back. He spotted them fairly easily, dismounting before approaching the two. 

“Arya,” Robb started, “I was certain our Father said to bring your sister _quickly_ to his chambers. And yet the both of you seem to be in anything but a hurry.” He turned to Sansa with a frown marring his young face, “A letter from King’s Landing has arrived. I did not see its contents before I was sent to fetch you both.”

“Do you think something is amiss in the Capital?” Sansa worried as they started to trek the short walk back to the Castle, bidding a silent farewell to the Godswood. “Arya said it was from the King himself.” 

“Our sister is lucky I don’t speak to Septa Mordane about her unruly behavior.” Robb took after their Father, seemingly jovial and keeper of peace, but when it came to royal affairs, he became just like their Mother, unwavering and cold. “If it is not written to you, Arya, then you do not open it. Any squire would be chained for meddling with the Royal Family.” 

“I wasn’t meddling…” Her words died at the harsh glare he threw, effectively silent for the rest of the walk. 

Dirt and soft snow crunched under their boots, dead leaves decaying as the new began to sprout. Far out beyond the Gates, lush greenery had begun to grow.

The signs of the North’s summer were blooming under their feet, and Sansa hid her glee, thinking of all the lemon cakes that would surely come once Dorne’s shipments of fruits would arrive. Ripe, lusciously round lemons would fill the halls; she could nearly smell them already. 

All three of them stood before their Father’s chambers; “Go find somewhere to make yourself useful. This is not meant for your ears,” Robb ordered to Arya. The youngest stark mumbled curses under her breath, storming down the hall while steam shot from her ears. Once she was out of sight, Robb opened the door, ushering in his sister. 

“Sansa, dear, I was beginning to worry that you and Arya had gotten lost.”

Their Mother, Catelyn Tully-Stark, rose from her comfortable chair, surprising her daughter with a hug. Sansa recovered quickly, hugging her Mother’s slim waist, sensing Robb sitting down as well. “I hope your time in the Godswood was pleasant.” 

“It was,” Sansa smiled. “The flowers have begun to bloom again. It’s beautiful.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Ned Stark grinned at his eldest daughter. She eyed him behind his looming desk; papers and ink sprawled across the wide space.

No doubt, the letter of concern was the gold one lying before him.

From far away, she could not discern a single word, but the sigil of House Lannister was recognizable to any eye. 

“Arya said a letter from the Capital arrived,” she began, “Has something happened?”

Sighing while rubbing the scruff on his cheek, her Father answered, “Yes, I suppose something has.” His hand drifted to the open parchment, rubbing the tip between his fingers.

He cleared his throat before answering, “King Tywin has sent out a decree for all maidens above four and ten and under one and twenty.” 

She felt her stomach grow tight. “What… what does it say?” 

“It is a decree of marriage, Sansa. Every maiden must report to King’s Landing within a fortnight to meet the King, where he will decide on a future bride,” sighed Ned. “ _You_ must go to King’s Landing, sweetheart.” 

“Oh.” 

It would have been odd to feel true fear at her Father’s words; there must have been hundreds upon thousands of maidens in the Seven Kingdoms. Ladies prettier than her, smarter than her, more… wanton than her would arrive with red cheeks and plump lips, begging to bed the King. 

Girls only dreamed of marrying the strongest man in Westeros, of birthing the future heirs that would sit upon the Iron Throne. Gods, she’d never even seen the throne. There was only word of its looming presence, broken jagged metal forged to create a seat that was meant to rule. A seat meant for Tywin Lannister. 

Sansa knew she was too soft for the throne; sewing and sneaking Lemon Cakes were not the actions of a queen. Therefore, this trip to the Capital would simply be one for… seeing the sights that King’s Landing had to offer. New silks for new dresses, new exotic treats to fill her belly, and for once, she would feel the warm sun on her pale skin.

South, near the shores of Dorne but not above Tyrell land, was the bright Capital of King’s Landing. 

To be away from the Winterfell, for once at least, and-

Oh! To be a Queen! 

She nearly laughed.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Her Mother asked, “Come, sit down before you faint.” 

She waved away her Mother’s helping hand, “I’m quite alright, Mother.”

Ned nearly jumped back as his daughter mused aloud, “I wonder what the Capital will be like. I’ve always wanted to go. We’ve so many books about all the clothes and traditions, I can’t wait to see it for myself.” 

“Are you not worried about meeting King Lannister?” piped up Robb, staring at his sister as though she were a three-headed dragon. 

“Why should I be?” she innocently asked the room. “I’d assume King Tywin is a fine man, handsome as well, but if every Kingdom received that letter, then I can guarantee I’ll be back in less than two moons.” 

Catelyn tutted her daughter, “You think too low of yourself, darling. Any man would pay to have your hand, and your beauty will have the King on his knees.” 

Ned looked between his two of three favorite women, eventually agreeing with his wife, “Do not lessen your worth with your own words, daughter. They will eat you alive if you do not stand above them with your head held high. Your mother is right, King Lannister has yet to meet you.” 

Her parents' words were kind and soft. It was their intention as her Mother and Father, to soothe her worries, but it only made them flourish and grow stronger.

King Tywin would take one look at her and turn her away, she knew it. She was just a girl of six and ten from Winterfell. He needed someone like Margaery Tyrell. 

“Jon will accompany you and six of my best riders to King’s Landing. You leave on the morrow once you’ve broken your fast.” 

That night, once the final meal had been taken and only a gentle breeze echoed the halls, Sansa found herself at the Godswood, kneeling before the face of the Heart Tree.

Shivers tore up her spine as the ever-present chill of Winterfell wracked her bones. Her teeth chattered as her whispers bled out into the cold air. 

Looking up, the eyes of the tree bled, and she prayed. 


	2. Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa arrives at the Capital, meeting new faces and foes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YA'LL imma be real, I loved writing this chapter and I really hope you enjoy reading it!
> 
> EDIT: 
> 
> I knew I made this mistake and just changed it. I'm really bad at distance! I have horrible visualization of distance I can admit it. I initially had the Great Sept of Balor next to the Red Keep, and until watching season 6, I didn't know they were miles away from each other, I truly had no idea. And no one called me out so I didn't change it, but someone did so it's been changed. If I do something like that in the future, just go with it as me changing canon because, once again, I'm not trying to follow the show bit by bit. Thanks!

**_ Chapter 2: Innocence _ **

**_ Fleabottom _ **

Leaving Winterfell had once been dreamed by a young Sansa of only nine, begging for stories of knights and princes that would rescue her from her icy prison. In the stories, they would demand her hand in marriage, whisking her off to a far away land, where they would have many children with red hair. In her dreams, they would sneak in her window and steal soft kisses before Father could be alerted of a trespasser in his daughter’s bedroom.

Of course, their hands would not touch her, for they admired her purity above all else. Only their lips would meet, for then her most trusted guard, Ser Clegane, would barge in and nearly kill the forbidden prince. In the dreams where he rode away safely on his white stallion into the sunset, she would awake with smiles and snickers. 

Sadly, she awoke with tears when Ser Clegane’s meaty hands would crush the boy's throat for trying to ‘deflower’ the princess.

 _It’s only a dream, my dear,_ Mother would croon while wiping away her salty tear stricken cheeks. They were far from the reality she would find herself in years later. No prince or knight had even come for her or stolen any kisses, crushing her young heart. But within a sennight and a half, the party from Winterfell had crossed the over thousand-mile distance to King’s Landing, the Capital of Westeros. 

As they’d ridden through the small streets, Sansa had remained in the carriage while Jon and the knight’s rode to clear a path to the where someone of importance would greet them, she could only assume. Looking outside, her heart had fallen significantly. Dirt and filth lined the streets, people crying for food as their children stumbled with swollen bellies and bleeding eyes. 

In all of the stories and whispers, the Capital was said to be the epitome of royalty, yet all she saw was disease and the stench of death. Waste poured down to the streets from high windows, and men haggled cooked cats covered in char. Putting a cloth to her nose, she tried not to accidentally wretch on herself. The smell was nearly too much to bear, and yet all of these people _lived_ in it. 

Winterfell was nothing like this, and it befuddled the eldest female Stark. King's Landing had the riches to give these people proper homes and clothes, to do away with starvation and the pain these people so clearly felt.

The carriage nearly came to a halt as a young boy, no older than five, ran past the horses. From inside, Sansa could see the boy collapse into a puddle of mud and waste. Barely taking a moment to think, the door to the carriage pushed open easily and she slipped out, coming to the collapsed boys side. 

Up close, it was easier to see his wide belly that lacked any food; his back caked in old wounds. Her heart ached for the poor boy. He must have been as young as Arya, or even Rickon. Uncaring of the yells from her guard, she turned the poor boy over, wiping away the wetness on his face. 

“Lady Stark!” growled her brother, Jon.

“You must return inside, immediately.” Around them, dirty, curious folk began to look on with wide eyes, none stepping forward to claim the fallen boy. The knights had yet to dismount their horses, but their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, ready to defend her. Atop his horse, Ser Clegane glared, his scarred face twitching. 

“You nearly rode him over. He could’ve died.” Cradling the child’s head to her bosom, she was uncaring of the muck now staining her new silk dress. 

“He ran in front of us,” defended Jon, “We don’t have time for this, Lady Stark. I understand you wish to help him-” 

She cut him off, “Then let us help.”

Pointing to her carriage, “Please, Jon, on my seat is a crust of bread. At least let me leave him that.” 

More gunge covered foul smelling people slithered in, their eyes watching and waiting. Little girls huddled against their mother’s breast as the woman with hair like comet's light cradled one of their own.

No one of high birth ever ventured to Fleabottom, nor touched their atrocious odious skin. But their eyes watched the black haired knight return with a crust of bread, and the woman gingery fed it to the boy. 

“It’s alright, I won’t hurt you,” whispered Sansa. The boy’s eyes fluttered open but widened in fear at the bright haired beauty.

Only his mouth had received the boot of Kingsguard, and she hushed his scrambling form. “Please, eat this. You need it more than I do. I promise,” she hummed lightly, smiling when his struggles stopped, “I won’t hurt you.” 

The boy realized she must have been one of the Seven, come to show him a shred of kindness in his darkest hour.

Looking into her pale dainty hand, one portion of crusty bread was inches before his mouth, and he eagerly started to chew with broken and cracked teeth, moaning at the fleeting hunger pains.

Humming softly, she cradled the boy until he’d had his fill, and gasped when he lurched up to kiss her cheek, whispering, “ _Bless you, Maiden.”_

Fleeing into the streets of Fleabottom, the boy disappeared from her sight, and this time, Jon stomped forward and harshly whispered, “Now, Sansa.” He only ever called her sister or her name in private, or in a case like this, where he was furious.

Taking his leather covered hand, and wincing at the wet pieces of silk clinging to her legs, she stepped back into the carriage. Jolting as they began to move again, while fingering the damaged silk, she looked out at the people of Fleabottom.

Most had begun to return to their daily activities; waste pouring down once more as large bellied women roamed the streets, but few eyed the carriage that hobbled down the street.

They would tell their children of the day that one of the Seven-Faced Gods had visited Fleabottom. 

* * *

_**Outside The Red Keep** _

Upon arrival at the stairs leading to the Red Keep, regret set into Sansa’s bones. Looking down at her filthy dress, she bit her lip. _I’ll be sent home at once,_ she knew, _they will take one look and laugh at the stupid, dirty girl from Winterfell._

Yes, they would spit words and send her harsh glares, but in her heart, she knew that the right choice had been made. That boy would live to see another day, and that mattered more than what any other woman or Septa thought. 

And, if the King thought she was a fool for helping those in need, then he was no King of hers. Marrying a man who did not help the helpless and innocents was no man she could bed. But still, having a filthy dress did not help her one bit.

Only a handful of silken dresses had been brought for their travels, and the others smelled of sweat and were horribly wrinkled. Not that there was anywhere to change, her Septa Mordane not there to help untie her underthings and look the part of future Queen. 

A knock from the outside of the carriage alerted her to their arrival, and she swung open her door and stepped out, relishing in the sun of the Capital. From their place on the wide steps, the monstrous castle that dominated King’s Landing was fully on display. Every tower- and way into the clouds was the Tower of the Hand- was bright and shining before her very eyes.

Three centuries of wisdom ran under her feet, and far off into the distance, the Dragon Pit, once used under the Targaryen rule, lay in ruins. One day she would hope to see it. 

“Is it everything you hoped for, My Lady?” 

She turned to take Jon’s arm, “Everything and more.”

Starting to walk to the Great Hall, Sansa mused aloud, “Does Winterfell have this many people in need?” 

When he took longer than four strides to respond, she sighed, “We do, don’t we?”

“King’s Landing has more people than us, and Riverlands the Vale, _and_ the Wall combined. It’s expected that they can’t feed everyone. And no, the people of Winterfell have food and homes… and they don’t smell as bad.” 

Batting his arm, they walked under an archway, finally inside the Castle halls. Guards lined every wall, every corner, and their gold armor donned with golden roaring lions unnerved her.

Lannister was the strongest and wealthiest name in Westeros, and they did their job of making every other home feel like nothing more than a speck of dirt amongst a sea of gold. Father didn’t keep the Castle like this, and after spending less than an hour here, she’d come to appreciate it. 

“Is my dress really that bad?” More than four guards had snickered when she’d walked past, whilst Jon and Ser Clegane had glared for her pride.

Jon sighed, “I’ve seen worse. Hopefully, they keep their eyes on your face.” 

“What if the King finds it insulting that I’ve arrived in such a state? He could have my head removed.” She gulped, trying not to scratch her wrist.

“Would it be as insulting if I avoided him all together and tried to find a room to change?” 

“Probably,” ground out Jon, “And we’re not meeting the King. Not yet at least.”

Surprise seized her veins; she’d prepared herself to bow to the floor before King Tywin. To take one look and be sent away, but clearly, things had been kept from her. “What do you mean, not meeting the King? I thought we’d be getting this over with now.” 

“I thought so too, but a knight told us the King was busy in the Tower of the Hand.”

They were nearly at the doors to the Great Hall when Jon gripped her hand tighter, whispering, “He asked his eldest to come in his place.” 

Nearly fainting, Sansa gripped Jon’s hand for dear life as one of the guards stationed outside the Hall nodded to them to wait. His golden covered arm knocked twice, second louder than the first, and the doors began to open.

Rushes of wind slapped against her stained dress, and the golden knight ushered them forward. Trying not to look up and around the great pillars, Sansa took in as much as she could with her head straightforward. Once again, golden guards lined the halls of the Great Hall, swords and spears at the ready to protect whoever sat on the Iron Throne.

Whilst she’d been expecting King Tywin, as they strode closer, the shape that took form was one of beauty known throughout the land. 

Cersei Lannister, first born daughter to King Tywin and twin to Jamie Lannister- Kingslayer and usurper of Thrones, _Oathbreaker,_ and the one who’d gracefully handed the title of King to his Father. Their brother Tyrion held no title of beauty or bravery, he was merely known as the Imp. Sansa vowed to only speak his true name if they happened to meet. 

Trying to keep her nerves in check with each closing step, she nearly crushed Jon’s hand. Cersei was beautiful, this was true, but on her lips laid a cross between a sincere smile and a wicked smirk, one that reminded her of Petyr Baelish whenever he happened to visit Winterfell.

It always sent chills running up and down her spine, unnerved every bone in her body. 

There was no chance to run, and Cersei stared down whilst tapping her nails on the hand of the Throne. It was improper to speak first to Royalty, as well as to look them in the eye before they gave permission.

So, looking down to the hard grey floor, they waited for Cersei to speak. 

There was no guarantee as to how many minutes had passed before Jon was wrenched from her side; Ser Clegane growled like a dog at the knight who tried to grab him, but eventually, both were taken out of the Great Hall.

Jon yelled the whole way, demanding to be with his sister, and she wanted to cry when the doors shut with him behind. 

“Hello, little dove.”

Cersei’s voice was saccharine sweet, much like a bottle of prune juice on a warm day. “You must forgive my guards for how they handled your friends. I meant them no harm.” 

Gulping, Sansa looked up into emerald green eyes of Cersei, “I forgive you, My Lady-”

“You Grace,” Cersei snapped, eyes flashing like Wildfire. 

“Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry, Your Grace.” 

Smirking once more, Cersei asked, “Why are you here?” 

Thinking carefully, not wanting to anger the King’s daughter, she treaded lightly, “I’d received word that the King is looking for a bride. And it was decreed that all suitable maiden’s must come before the King- Your Grace,” she added quickly, flinching at the rage in Cersei’s eyes.

No one in Winterfell had ever spoken to her like this, looked at her this way, like she belonged in Fleabottom. 

“What happened to your dress, little dove? I can smell it from here.” 

Thinking it through, she knew lying to Cersei could possibly end with a beheading, she told the truth with her head held low, “A boy ran in front of our horses, Your Grace. I-I gave him some food and sent him on his way. I did not think of my appearance at that moment, Your Grace.” 

Cersei leaned forward on the Iron Throne, red dress crinkling around her shoulders as she repeated, “You did… what?” 

“I-I helped-” 

Laughter bubbled from Cersei’s throat, bouncing off the walls and hitting Sansa square in the face. Guards joined in on the laughter as well, and Sansa wished the floor would swallow her whole. It was humiliating to be stood before the Iron Throne, a laughing stock.

Red blossomed her cheeks and she did her best to keep any tears at bay. 

Immediately, Cersei stood and the laughter died. “Do you truly think my Father, the greatest Knight and King who ever lived, will name you Queen of the Seven Kingdom? A girl who stands before the Iron Throne, smelling of piss and shit?”

Smiling, Cersei stalked down the deep steps, “I envy your empty head, Little Dove. You’re lucky you did not have the chance to meet my Father.” 

Cersei stood before Sansa, two heads taller than the girl of six and ten. 

“He would have raped you bloody and taken your title. You’d be a whore with nothing but a bastard in your belly, and all the shit-covered children you could carry. I rue that I will not see the day your tits sag and your belly grows barren. No man, nor my Father, will ever look twice at you. Such a shame, really,” one of Cersei’s own pale hands came up to cup Sansa’s cheek, rubbing it like Mother would.

“Perhaps I’ll give you to the Mountain. He likes them young… and pretty.” 

“You will do no such thing, sister.” 

One lone tear that had been held at bay slipped down Sansa’s cheek, soaking into her dress. Looking over Cersei’s shoulder, she watched a small man hobble in from the side door, his oddly colored eyes lacking the malice of his elder sister, with a kinder smile to boot.

His height was half of Sansa, but she still bowed when he reached her side, and murmured, “Your Grace”, much to the chagrin of Cersei. 

“Please, if I am to one day call you Mother, I insist you call me Tyrion,” the youngest Lannister replied.

His lack of Lannister golden hair surprised Sansa, she remembered hearing all true Lannister’s were blonde, and green eyed as well, but Tyrion bore one green and one brown. 

“Let me guess,” Tyrion mused, gazing up and down Sansa’s distressed form.

“Red hair, blue eyes and skin as pale as ice…a Tully, I presume? Or is it Stark now? You are much too old to be Arya Stark, so you-” he slapped his knee joyfully, “- must be Sansa.” 

Nodding, Sansa meekly agreed, “Yes… Tyrion. I’m Sansa Stark, Lord Stark’s eldest daughter of six and ten.” 

Seeing that she was losing control, Cersei snapped at her brother, “Get out. Father told me that I would be the one who decided which whores are to remain in King’s Landing for his approval, and this one,” she rounded on Sansa with fiery eyes, “will not be present.” 

“I disagree, dear sister.” Tyrion smirked at Sansa and held out his small hand. “Come, let us leave before she tries to have you beheaded.” 

“Take his hand and you will lose it.” Cersei breathed fire in Sansa’s face, and she felt her legs start to turn to jelly.

Even if she desired to flee with Lord Tyrion, she didn’t want to return home one hand less. Standing between two Lannister’s, each spewing clever words with wicked glares, it made me feel like she resided in the Dragon Pit between two fire breathing beasts, not one having the upper hand over the other. 

“Must you be so cruel, Cersei? She’s just a child.” 

“Cruel?” Cersei mocked. “You’re the reason we’re here. If you hadn’t killed Mother, then Father wouldn’t need to fuck a child bride. You’re a _monster.”_

“I’m a monster?” Tyrion mimicked. “I don’t believe you’ve ever truly looked in the mirror and seen what we all do. Except our dear brother, of course, though, I think he looks at more than just your face.” 

Tyrion’s head snapped to the side from the force of Cersei’s hand, and his cheek blossomed red.

Instead of backing down, as any sane man or woman would in the face of Cersei Lannister, Tyrion simply smirked. 

“Perhaps we should bring her up to Father now. See if he agrees with your ruling and sends her away himself. Not to mention the other hundred girls you’ve already sent on their way. I do believe it _is_ Father getting married, not yourself. Of course, I have heard word of his plans to marry you off… again. Why not kill two birds with one stone?” 

Cersei vibrated with rage, wishing her youngest brother dead and gone one million times over, wanting Meryn Trant to relieve him of his head, and then the Stark whore as well. They did not deserve to be in her family name, Lannister’s were above everyone and everything, but she knew killing her brother would be irreversible damage.

And now, killing the Stark girl would damage her own name, and possibly bring a war to their front door. Sadly, at least for Sansa, she didn’t know how patient Cersei truly was in getting what she wanted. 

“Fine,” relented Cersei, lifting her dress and making way back to the Iron Throne.

Sitting and sneering down at her brother and the rightfully frightened Stark girl, she ordered, “Get her out of my sight.” 

“Come, My Lady, before she changes her mind.”

This time, she took the offered hand and without looking at the piercing gaze of Cersei, they left the Great Hall.

Outside in one of the various Courtyards that housed fruit trees ranging from lemon- oh, she tried not to salivate dreaming of the lemon cakes the kitchens could bring her at a moments notice- to peach and an array of multi colored apples, handmaidens lingered on the grass, and Tyrion lightly ushered her down another stone path. 

“I feel it is only right that I apologize for my sister’s behavior.” Tyrion squeezed her hand lightly, turning up to smile.

“I promise, as long as I remain alive, that I will not allow her to relieve you of your head or any other limbs you deem necessary.” 

“Do not apologize for her behavior. She was within her right to have me sent away.” 

Stopping, Tyrion’s smile fell. “Why do you say that? What exactly did she say to you before I had a chance to arrive?” 

Very clearly remembering Cersei’s vile and cruel words, she repeated them softly, “Your Father would never marry a girl who smells of piss and…”

Mother had always said cursing was for men and bastards, not ladies of the Court. “She said I would be better fit for the Mountain.” 

“Gods,” Tyrion exclaimed, “I’ve never known my sister to hold her tongue, but I assure you, I will bring this to my Father’s attention.” 

“No, you mustn’t,” begged Sansa. “She will only despise me more if you do.” 

“I do not think there is a single person in Westeros that my sister actually likes, Lady Sansa. You would not be the first to speak against her, and I assure you, you will not be the last. Please, I’m offering you my services, and that is something I do not give easily.” 

They continued walking down the stone pathway, and Sansa took a moment to look down at the man who’d shown more kindness, especially with the Lannister name, than she’d been expecting. Yes, his outwardly appearance was that of a dwarf, but a fairly attractive one she can admit, and his way with words soothed her calming heart.

Truly, she’d expected Cersei to have her head put on a spike at any moment as a threat to any other arriving maiden’s. She would not forget Lord Tyrion and his kindness, no matter his true intentions, which he’d yet to reveal. 

“Why did you help me, Lord Tyrion?” At the befuddled look on his face, she backtracked. “Not that I am not appreciative of your help, but… Are you truly here to help me return safely home once your Father has picked his bride?” 

Tyrion, looking up at the fine sun-kissed beauty that was Sansa Stark, he felt a pinch in his heart. Innocence shone bright on her pale cheeks, and reflected back in her sapphire eyes.

It almost made him think of the first time he’d fucked Shae, how scared and nervous she’d been, her plush thigh trembling in his small hands.

That this slip of a girl, and beautiful was an understatement when standing in her presence, thought that Father would _not_ fall for her charms was surprising, and not many things surprised Tyrion.

Tywin Lannister was many things, but he was just as much a man as any other, and would fall to his knees for this girl.

Yes, she was soft and pure with sweet songbird words- her once frozen cage would become a golden gilded one, for Father would never release her from his bedchambers until she was fat with heir upon heir for the court to see- and truly, Tyrion felt his heart reach out to the girl.

He longed for a sibling with red locks such as hers; perhaps blue eyes instead of Lannister green. That heir would be the talk of Westeros for decades to come.

“I will do everything in my power to see you home,” he lied. “Now come, we’ve decided to put two girls per room until we run out, and I can see you getting along fairly well with Lady Margaery. Her bark is far worse than her bite.” 

At the end of the corridor well inside the Castle walls, and far from the fruit tree filled Courtyard, Tyrion released her hand, knocking on a red painted door. It wrench open from the inside, and Sansa instantly put on her best smile.

Before stood a stunning woman with brown curled locks bouncing over each shoulder, cacao eyes staring with interest, lips curled into a heart shaped smirk. This must have been Margaery Tyrell. 

“Lord Tyrion,” Margaery addressed first, looking down at the dwarf. “What brings you here? Has King Tywin called for me?” 

“No, My Lady, but this is Sansa Stark, and she will be joining your quarters, where you two will sleep and break your fast together for however long you each remain.”

Lightly tapping the small of Sansa’s back, Tyrion bid his farewell. “I do hope you two become the best of friends.” 

When Tyrion’s tiny form was out of sight, Margaery leaned out and looked both ways, tugging Sansa in with a surprising strength. Once the door had slammed, and locked, behind, Sansa took in their rooms. It was much nicer than her room in Winterfell.

The beds were much larger and could fit more than two people each, but the blinding gold and red colors irritated her eyes. She much preferred the soft blues and greys of home. Each bed was lined with mountains of goose feather filled pillows that would be clouds under her head, and best of all, dresses hung in both open closets, which meant she could finally change. 

She’d barely taken a step when Margaery sinfully sung, “What’s happened to your dress, Sansa? It’s quite dirty and smells… pungent.” 

Telling the truth to Cersei had ended horribly the first time, but Margaery wasn’t a Lannister, which gave her a little more trust in Sansa’s mind. “A boy ran in front of us in Fleabottom and I helped him back on his feet.”

Gasping, she remembered Jon and Sandor, “My brother and guard were taken by Cersei. I don’t know where they’ve gone.” 

Margaery waved away her worry, “There’s no reason to worry. They took my brother, Loras, as well. I assume they’re eating or drinking or partaking in female company. But you said you helped the poor earlier, and that’s why your dress is dirty?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm,” Margaery hummed, eyeing the smaller red haired beauty with newfound interest. “It seems we both have a penance for helping those less fortunate than ourselves. I only wish I’d had the look, as you do, to show for it. Where are you from, Sansa?” 

“The North,” Sansa supplied. “My Father is the Warden of the North, King of Winterfell. And you?” 

“I’m afraid I hail much closer than Winterfell. I’m a Tyrell, we own the Reach, which is just South of King’s Landing. Which means, of course, when I am to marry the King, the move from there to here will be particularly easy. A marriage of Lannister and Tyrell would bring great prosperity to Westeros. We are known for our fertile lands and simple births.” 

Sansa faltered, “ _When_ you marry the King? Don’t you mean if?” 

“Silly Sansa,” chuckled Margaery, her smirk turning her face grotesque. “I’m not here to be sent home empty handed, much like yourself, I’d assume.”

She walked forward with an air of grace, stopping in front of the red haired girl who had no clue what she was in for. “I want us to be friends, Sansa. I’m no Cersei Lannister, I would never hurt you.” 

Nodding at her new friend, Sansa plopped down on the bed she’d mentally claimed as hers. There was something off about Margaery, need it be that smirk or her heavy words, but Sansa was not as foolish as everyone thought.

King’s Landing was the lion’s den, and while getting home was her main goal, staying alive was next on that last. 

“I… want us to be friends, as well, Margaery. We could help each other when we can.” Sansa looked over at the open closet.

“Will you help me change? I believe Cersei mentioned a welcome feast.”

Smirking, Margaery sauntered to the closet and ran her fingers through the array of dresses. While sharing a room with a girl prettier than her had been unexpected, taming her would be quite simple. _She won’t last five minutes with the Lion of King’s Landing,_ Margaery understood, _Not like me._

She was leaving here a Queen, Sansa Stark be damned. No one was going to get in her way or being the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

No one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my other GoT/ASoIaF, Maiden's Hand with Sandor/Sansa!
> 
> Hopefully I will update again next week! 
> 
> Comment if you enjoyed and tell me what you liked!


	3. Meeting of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery venture out and see the competition. 
> 
> Tyrion contemplates Sansa. 
> 
> And finally, 
> 
> Tywin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Superbowl, so I wanted to get this chapter out before it started!
> 
> Hope you like this chapter, pretty dialogue heavy and plot widening. Real thick chapter, my bad. 
> 
> Also, I always gotta say, plz don't put me or this fic on a pedestal and then be disappointed when it doesn't go the way you want. I'm writing this because I love GoT and want to share my baby with ya'll. But don't @ me for faster updates, it's disheartening. As a writer, I see it as my job to convey a story with complex characters and emotions you're invested in, not belting out chapter after chapter. I'm not calling anyone out! I swear!
> 
> ... but I have been in a previous fandom where that was the majority accepted attitude to have towards authors, and it sucked.
> 
> Also, I love comments where you point out an interaction or dynamic you liked! It helps me be certain that I'm doing my job right!
> 
> This is 11 pages, and my sort of beta reader has been awol so... mistakes, there may be few.

**_ Chapter 3: Deceit _ **

The first time the Lannister name had graced Winterfell, Sansa had barely been a girl of seven, hiding behind her Mother’s knees as heads of blonde dismounted pure snowy stallions, squires at the ready while handmaidens waited on light feet. Cersei had been much younger then, her smile not yet jagged and cold, hair still flowing over her shoulders and breasts like the rivers of Riverrun. Jamie had been there as well, still mounted on his stallion with golden lions flowing behind on his cape. Kingsguard had been just a new title of his- whispers of _Kingslayer_ and _Oathbreaker_ still fluttered like little birds- but she’d been mesmerized by his smile. 

In their fortnight at Winterfell, she’d only seen him smile at Cersei. Feasts burdened with words her small ears had yet to understand, smelly fish from Riverrun had been fresh in the kitchens; it had turned Sansa’s stomach, and her Mother’s child-full one as well. The North was abundant with fish, and her Father would whisper _smile, my lemon cake, dessert only comes to those who finish their supper._ She’d scarf down ten smelly fish for one rich lemon cake. 

She’d nibbled on her lemon cake as Jamie whispered in his sister’s ear, feeling her own cheeks grow red at Cersei’s smile. It was a shame they were twins having shared the same womb. They would have made a lovely couple. 

By the time the castle had fallen silent, she’d snuck out of her rooms. No guards lined the halls, normally the Hound growled outside her door, scaring off any boys who saw it fit to try and win her young hand. He was scary, scarier than the shadows in the dark and horrors that Septa Mordane described would happen to little girls who didn’t listen. His face was that of a dog, half scarred with jagged burns never fully healed. She’d asked before why he looked the way he did. 

_Curious little bird, trying to fly with broken wings,_ he’d said. 

She never asked again. 

Far, far away from her rooms, she’d seen him. 

_The Imp._

No, Lord Tyrion, brother of Cersei and Jamie, murderer of Joanna Lannister, hated by all. Small was an understatement- she was small, but would grow and grow as she aged up and up, while Tyrion would never sprout branches to become taller than any sapling. He was younger than she’d thought, and his ear was pressed to a door, eyes closed. 

_What’re you doing?_

_Listening. Go away._

_Why don’t you knock?_

_I don’t want them to come. I just want to listen._

_...But why?_

Sounds she’d only heard from her parent’s chambers rang through the closed door, and her face grew hot. 

_Why are you listening to that?_

_Because I want to be sure. Will you please go away?_

She’d taken two steps closer to the Imp, watching him back away from the door. His eyes crinkled at the edges, as if he meant to laugh, but he only sighed. 

_Never fall in love. People do monstrous things when compelled by love._

_But whose-_

_Jamie, stop it!_

The Imp had looked into her eyes as his sister’s giggles bled back into moans. 

When the Lannister party had waved farewell to Winterfell, Sansa had not fallen for Jamie’s smiles, nor would she ever again. 

“Come,” begged Margaery. One of her hands was held out in front under Sansa’s nose. “I’ve always wanted to explore their luscious gardens. I hear they have every fruit from here to Dorne. Dried apricots, peaches and dates. Have you ever had dried fruit? I hear it makes men more potent.” 

“Potent?” 

“Yes, you silly goose.” Margaery looked down at Sansa, “Come, and let us get to know one another. We’ve only a handful of hours before the Feast. I’d prefer sitting next to someone I know than a stranger.” 

Exiting their room, Sansa immediately spotted a cluster of three girls. Each one reminded her of the birds that flustered and cooed outside her window, nibbling crumbs from her hand. One girl's dark locks were the Ravens, the other girls pale skin the Dove, and the last girls haughty laugh the Crow. Feeling the urge to go over and introduce herself, she barely moved an inch as Margaery tugged her close. “I’d keep away from Myrcella. She’s Cersei’s daughter. I wouldn’t trust her not to run to the King with any unsightly words against our honor.” 

From where she stood, Sansa noted the similarities between the one who could be called a Lannister; Myrcella and Cersei. They both donned a crown of silk, golden locks that flowed down their backs, pure white smiles- though this one lacked the taint of crimson wine, and both of them stood tall above any group of women or men. But unlike Cersei, she noted that Myrcella seemed to be getting along with the other girls. 

No one got along with Cersei. 

“And the others?” 

The girl with dark hair, short and bobbed at her shoulders, stood two heads shorter than the rest, whilst the girl with a haughty laugh and dark auburn locks shook with every chuckle. Though much like a cawing crow, the laugh sounded similar to a dying animal, gasping for breath. Robb took to hunting in a way Arya and Jon didn’t. His sword slashed the throat of newborn foals before they felt true pain. 

_Mercy,_ Robb called it.

“Myranda is the one cackling to herself, and I believe the other to be Obara Sand.” Sansa pointedly looked away when Obara sharply turned to stare. “I thought her to be one of the Martell’s numerous bastards, but I've been wrong before. And I hear Myranda is known for her fascination with inflicting pain on things already dead.”

“Do you think the King will like them?” Sansa could feel stares into her back as Margaery led her away from the gardens and into a hedge of fresh greenery, carefully stepping down the stone pathway. “They’re very beautiful.” 

“He’s not just looking for beauty, Sansa. He needs someone to rule at his side, not just birth pretty heirs. I suppose you’d be good for at least one of those things.” 

Eventually, they reached the bottom of the steps, and the vast view of the Narrow Sea, few boats lingering in the distance. There was nothing such as this in Winterfell; no waters bordering the lands and the only boats belonging to the Lord of the North lay many moons away, watched day and night by loyal bannerman. 

Father always promised they would see the rest of Westeros from the wooden slats of grand ships, but standing in King’s Landing was close enough. 

The waves sprayed beads of warm water on her warm skin, instantly cooling her flesh. It was soothing, she supposed, perhaps one day taking a dip into the ravenous waters would be a fun activity for her and whatever husband she ensnared. To see King Tywin in his small clothes, frolicking in the waves nearly had her doubled over, holding back a snicker, though it did not go unnoticed. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” Sansa bit her bottom lip, eyes on the waves. “I was just picturing King Tywin in the water.” 

“Why in the Seven would you imagine that?” 

“I just-I thought it would be interesting to think he’d remove his armor and have fun with his new wife. I meant nothing ill by it.” 

Margaery rudely scoffed, tightening her grip on Sansa’s arm. “We aren’t here to have fun and frolic in the water. We’re here to become the Queen of Westeros, not act like children.” 

Her cheeks flamed red at her friends' words, “We are only six and ten, it is hardly expected that ruling would be all we think of.” 

“Perhaps where you come from, but in Highgarden, far near the Reach, I was raised to rule.” Margaery turned, dragging Sansa along. “It is best you remember where we both come from. Not everyone is you, Sansa.” 

“I didn’t say that everyone was,” defended Sansa. “Why are you speaking to me as though you’ve already been chosen as Queen? No one has been dismissed by the King, not you or I or-or even Myranda.”

“Darling Sansa” crooned Margaery, facing the red haired girl. “I want what is best for both of us, and our families. You’re my friend, and I assure you, I will do everything in my power to see you home.”

Tyrion had said those same words, but for some reason, they didn’t feel quite the same.

“Oi!” came from their left nearly knocking Sansa over the railing, Margaery helping her back. 

A swordsman came to a halt, short hair thrashing his round forehead as his defined frown deepened. He was no Kingsguard, for he lacked the armor, but the sword at his side frightened Sansa. 

He could kill them both, rape their corpses and feed them to the waters below. Though, instead of a lusty stare, the Kingsguard had enough of those, his face only held a kind smile.

“These waters are dangerous, ladies. Wouldn’t want the King’s future mistress swept away.” He held out a hand, “Bronn, at your service. Sellsword, I swear.” 

Taking him for his word, Sansa stepped forward to shake his hand, only to be pulled back quiet roughly by Margaery. The Tyrell maiden was far less trusting of the stranger, “I believe your services are not needed here. You may leave, sir, or I will find a Kingsguard to remove you.” 

Instantly, he backed away with his hands up, “I’m not looking for a fight, ladies, I have one of my own back home to watch over. Don’t need to be dying for either of you.” 

He stepped away with a nod, “As you were.” 

Once Bronn’s form had disappeared, Sansa became aware of acute pain in her elbow, where Margaery’s nails had dug in quite deeply, thin trails of blood starting to flow. Gently moving her arm away, she started to move her friend back up the path, “The Feast should be starting soon. Why don’t we return to prepare?” 

“You’re right,” agreed Margaery. “I know just how to do your hair.” 

Unaware of the pair of eyes watching their backs, they pondered aloud which dress would look better with Margaery’s hair. 

* * *

“Keep up, Podrick. We mustn't be late.” Tyrion kept ahead of his squire. “Every moment wasted is another lie from Cersei’s mouth, and we both know how much she enjoys those.” 

“Yes, m’lord.” Pod agreed. “ She does, m’lord.” 

Keeping a straight face, and ignoring the women gawking at his small stature, he continued along the cobblestone path. Finally, the day had seemingly reached its end. After saving the Stark girl from her demise, he’d hidden away in his chambers with Podrick, having already sent word for Shae to be brought to him immediately. 

There was nothing his Shae could not cure; from ailments to a limp cock seeking the warmth between her warm thighs. Bronn liked to drink him out of house and home, but the sellsword had yet to be seen. There was little doubt that the sellsword was firmly between the maiden Lollys’ thighs, much to the annoyance of Tyrion. 

Touching the girls sent for his father was grounds for treason, but alas, Bronn could handle himself. 

“You Grace” chirped his confidant Lord Varys, “A word while you walk.” 

Lord Varys was the eunuch with a penance for lies and whispers, his hungry children lurking behind every corner, waiting for a crumb of knowledge. They were always hidden out of sight, little arms and legs peeking and running, scurrying back to their master for sweet treats to stave off hunger. Though the children looked haggard, Varys himself wore silken robes to hide his large form, arms crossed before his protruding yet hidden belly; Master of Secrets, Master of Lies. 

“Of course.” 

Turning down an empty path, the Master of Deceit revealed, “My whispers have told me that you favor Sansa Stark of the House of Winterfell, first born daughter of Eddard Stark. If I may say, an interesting choice.” 

“I do not favor her, I envy her innocence.” 

“And yet you saved her from Cersei’s wrath.” 

“As any man would have.” 

“But no other did, your Grace. She will remember the kindness you’ve displayed on this day. Perhaps, if she were to become Queen, you would take place at her side.” 

Tyrion nearly chuckled aloud, instead scoffing at his friend. “My Father would see me hanged if I so much as tried to speak to whichever bride he drags to the Sept against their will. I’d have better luck wooing the Mountain.”

There was little doubt in his mind that Sansa Stark could be trusted, but it would take more hands and whispers than he had to drop the girl in his fathers bed. He’s seen the look in the Tyrell girl’s eyes, and had passed even more that whispered of dubious love potions, and even worse, poison. It would not be the first, nor last, time a woman tried to poison another in King’s Landing; Cersei had done so plenty of times, his sister taken to enjoying that form of murder over something more hands on- more bloody. 

“I’ve also heard that the poor of Flea bottom are praising a red haired woman. The Maiden, they whisper.” 

“Oh?” 

“It seems dear Sansa fed a dying boy on her way here.” 

Chuckling to himself, Tyrion climbed the stairs, “Of course she did. Take away her sunlight and she’ll begin to wilt. Give her too much water and she’ll drown. A flower shaped maiden, who would’ve thought.” 

Varys keenly watched his friend. “Is this troubling to you?” 

They’d climbed three sets of golden stairs, Podrick barely keeping up and breathing heavily. Closer to the Tower of the Hand, more Kingsguard remained, gold hilted swords reflecting on the incoming sunlight. Ser Meryn Trant sneered at the Imp, grinned at Podrick Payne, whilst ignoring the eunuch. Ser Ilyn Payne remained stoic as ever, paying them no mind. There was still another swirl of stairs ahead, and Tyrion halted the three in the middle. 

“I trust Sansa Stark. As of this moment, it is most vital that she resides next to my Father on the Iron Throne. Do you understand me, Varys?” 

The eunuch seemed skeptical of such a declaration, “The innocent, especially, are susceptible to corruption, your Grace.”

“Yes, but…” Ears were everywhere, but there was no better time than now.

“You and I both know Westeros is on the brink of war, and not even all the gold from the Iron Bank can prevent it. The Seven Kingdoms grow weaker each day and my Father is not smart enough to save them all. We can unite ourselves with the North and take back the lands that are being stolen day and night. Ride beyond the Wall and slay anyone who stands in our way. I’ve heard talk of dragon eggs in Essos, waiting for their true master and we all know the Targaryen line is not dead. The people in our streets are dying every day and Cersei and my Father sit back and watch.”

Tyrion took a deep breath, “I will not let the Lannister name die because my family is a pack of _fools.”_

“Innocence can be molded. We just have to make sure we get there first.” 

“M’lord-” 

Turning to Podrick, Tyrion sucked in a deep breath and gave his brightest, most false smile, watching the whoremonger Petyr Baelish slither in a most serpentine way. A vile man, Tyrion knew. No one truly liked Petyr Baelish, his cunning words and vexing smirk were enough to woo any whore or sway any knight. But Tyrion saw through him easily. 

“Lord Baelish, what brings you to this particular staircase on this most lovely day?

Petyr took note of the Imp, looking down with curved lips. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Master of Coin. I wander where I please.” 

“And yet you appear where you are most unwanted.” 

“He does make a habit of that,” drawled Varys, eyeing Lord Baelish. 

“Of all the places to discuss important matters,” Petyr started, “I doubt this is the place. Especially when determining who will share the King’s bed and the Iron Throne.” 

“We’re doing nothing of the sort.” 

“I’m a whoremonger, not a fool.” Petyr glowered. “You intend for Sansa Stark to bed the King.” 

Knowing when he’s been caught, but refusing to give the brothel owner full truth, Tyrion lied. “I promised the girl I’d return her to Winterfell, and I intend to do just that. But none of us can deny that she would make a fabulous queen.” 

“Her beauty is unrivalled in all of King’s Landing, though I doubt she will take the throne as Lady Lannister. Cersei would never allow someone as young as Sansa to possibly replace her, or any new heirs to replace her own. She belongs in Winterfell; it is her home. There are other girls who were raised for this sort of thing. I’ve heard that Margaery Tyrell is eager to bed our King.”

This time, Varys cut in, stepping over Tyrion to match the Master of Coin. “Word of your… fascination with Catelyn Tully is old news, I believe, but I will not allow you to drag that girl down, as you failed to do with her Mother.” 

Petyr feigned innocence, “Cat and I were nothing more than friends. I take it upon myself to see young Sansa home, nothing more.” 

The Master of Coin took one step closer to Varys; “I have my own wife in the Vale to look after. Why would I need Sansa, when I’ve already taken Lysa?” 

“I hear your favorite whores are red heads, Lord Baelish. You’ve even taken to requiring some girls color theirs just to please you,” Varys pondered aloud.

“I cannot lie, it is a stunning trait. A shame it is not as common as gold in a place like King’s Landing. I do miss my dear wife’s… unique looks.”

“And yet here you stand, speaking of her niece,” Varys nodded, “Not every interaction is meant for your ears, Lord Baelish. Especially in regards to Sansa Stark.” 

Eventually, Tyrion saw best to cut in, tapping Varys’s knee to get the eunuch to back away. “Lord Baelish, excuse us.” 

Sprinting away before the lithe man could utter another witty word, the trio continued on their way. Rounding the last step, Tyrion eyed the chambers of the Hand of the King.

_It should’ve been me. These should be my chambers, my court._

Hand of the King was a role of prestige and importance, and a slap to the face that Father had seen fit to call upon his younger brother, Kevan. Normally, the cryptic Lannister rested out his days in Casterly Rock, lingering about mountains of sweet wine and planning battalions in the South. A Master at the Sword, they called Kevan. 

But now, he held more power than Tyrion ever would. 

“I do not trust that Lord Baelish is lacking in his own whisper amongst the court, and believe me, he will not back down.” 

“It would be unbecoming of Littlefinger to not fight his own battles,” agreed Varys. “Though I am curious as to why he does not simply take the girls maidenhead and send her back filled with bastards.”

“He’s a whoremonger, not a rapist.” It felt strange to defend Lord Baelish, but the vile man was not entirely horrible. “And besides, Lysa is already mad enough as it is. How do you think she would fair if her niece birthed her husband's bastard kin? He is a smart man, but every man has desire, and lust can kill even the cleverest of us.”

“The first sign of defeat is claiming strength in your enemy, your Grace.” 

Tyrion chuckled while Pod gave him a dubious look that said _you’re late, hurry up_ , but the Squire was too soft to speak. “Then I’ve been defeated ten time over, Varys. Only an honest man can admit that.” 

“Or a foolish one.” Varys bowed, making to leave, “Good day, your Grace.” 

Tyrion sighed. 

Why must every word and action be a move in the game of thrones? It only made life all more tiresome. Always-another fight at the edge of the river, another head on a spike, the smell of death and decay assaulting his senses. He hadn't been to Flea bottom in ages- the smell had wrought blood from his nose the last time-and yet the Stark girl had helped the vile people. It made her intentions curious; would a woman un-wanting of the throne truly still help the sick? Yes, her voice had sounded sincere, but women before had scorned him. 

“M’lord?” Pod interrupted his musing. “The meeting…?

“Yes, yes, Pod. Thank you.” Before entering the chambers to the Hand of the King, he ordered his squire to find Bronn and bring him to his chambers. 

Plans would need to be made, people paid off; the pieces of their cheese game had begun to move.

* * *

** _The Tower of the Hand_ **

There were few things that annoyed Tywin Lannister beyond belief. 

Egregious money spending was at the top; only fools spent what they did not have, the letters from the Iron Bank hidden in his younger brother’s desk, thinking himself clever as to not bringing them to his attention. If any other but his brother had tried to hide such things, they would have lost their head. 

Frivolous weddings, which required coins of silver and gold to every silk maker and cook nearly ground his teeth to a fine powder. They _had_ cooks, the best in Westeros. Were they not paid already to cook the finest there was? _Aside from vile mutton._

The smell of corpses was near the top of his list; having been in too many battles to count, beheaded more men than one could imagine, the vile, acrid taste of dead flesh tended to drive him mad. It was the exact reason he had not visited the areas beyond the Great Sept of Balor in many years. The people festered like maggots to rotting meat, squirming into every corner while shitting in every street. 

It had been one Joanna’s secrets- her proclivity to visit the dying and sick, helping children in need of food and warmth. Others had dared to call her foolish for giving them coin and kindness, though Tywin knew every hand that was gifted the currency of life would be wasted in a moment's notice. They were not smart enough to stay alive. 

Lastly, he hated the looks of the people of his Kingdom. As if he, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, needed any more than he already had. When his Joanna had passed that fateful morning only two decades and some past, the _faces_ they had all made had driven him mad. 

As if they actually knew his sweet wife who’d died in his arms, who’d begged the Seven to let their child die, so she could live. It had taken him aback, to hear such selfishness from his wife. Maesters and handmaidens had offered false condolences to his broken self, scurrying away as he wept for her cold body. 

Every blanket she’d ever attempted to knit or embroider that he’d kept hidden under their joined bed had been cast into the flames, and eventually, every possession of hers joined the blazing fire in his chambers. She had taken a part of him with her that day, and when he stared at her possessions, he only felt weak.

Tywin Lannister was not weak, nor in need of sympathies from those under him. 

“He’s late.” To his right, his eldest daughter, Cersei, grumbled under her breath, swirling a glass of summer wine. Joanna had always hated to see their child drunken with slurred words. “I don’t know why you insist on having him present.” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” chided Tywin. It had always been fairly obvious how devious his daughter was, from the animals she’d skinned as a pet, the lies she’d spoken to guards in order to have prettier girls beaten and bloodied, the distaste for life that lingered in her soul. 

Kevan, the Hand of the King, donning a crimson tunic with long dark robes, addressed his elder brother, “Perhaps, we could start now, my King? I did not intend for this meeting to waste so much of your time.” 

Before one word could leave Tywin’s mouth, the door slipped open, his stump of a son waddling in. Just the sight of him annoyed the King, willing away his wife’s dying eyes from behind his own. Rational knew it was truly not his unsightly son’s fault that his wife had died, but that mattered none. 

“You’re late,” spat Cersei. 

“Apologies,” his youngest echoed to the room, nodding to each member at the table. “I hope I did not keep you all waiting.” 

Cersei sipped at her riveting wine. “You should be grateful you’ve even been invited.” 

“Same to you.” 

She bristled, ruffling her feathers, “I am Queen Regent-”

“Former,” interrupted Tyrion, “Queen Regent, sister. I would’ve thought you’d keep your titles up to date.”

Tywin grew bored of their bickering. “Enough.” 

He only allowed two of his ungrateful children- Jamie was as useful in plotting and planning as a maiden in a whorehouse- but he saw promise in his twisted daughter, and even he knew Tyrion had more knowledge than he let on. If only they didn’t bicker like children. 

“Our first order of business,” Kevan began.

“The Dreadfort has had another skirmish, this time near Karhold, much too close for comfort, your Grace. Lord Karstark has threatened to send a battalion of men to kill the Bolton bastard in his sleep, seeing as Roose Bolton is currently making a treaty with the Bear Islands.” 

Tywin thought aloud, “What sort of peace is Bolton looking to gain?”

“I would assume marriage between the houses, his bastard to Lyanna Mormont.” Kevan admits, “I cannot be sure, your Grace. The Bolton’s are a volatile house, they cannot be trusted.” 

It would be unwise to simply send his army to wipe out the chaos that was the Bolton bastard; they were deep in the North, therefore it would time, men, energy and food to make such a journey. 

“Even if the houses unite, it would not be enough to overthrow the Starks. I needn’t worry about the mindless quarries between people of little importance. The North can handle itself.”

Kevan bowed, “Yes, your Grace.” He cleared his throat, starting his next piece of business whilst holding up a letter.

“I’ve received word from Walder Frey. He insists that one of his daughters wed with the Starks, but has received negative responses from Lord of the North. The Twins have predicted a winter in which their fish will be sparse and their men frozen. The Tully alliance with Edmure and former Catelyn Tully is not enough, according to Frey.” 

The North were like flies, breeding with one another- Joanna had been his second cousin, but it was not close enough to be incest- and Tywin cared little for these follies. There was already enough to worry about _here_.

Stannis Baratheon still called himself the true King from the pits of Dragonstone. Jealousy had run rampant in Stannis when Robert had married Cersei, but neither Gods nor Men had allowed Tywin to let the Baratheon fool rule the Seven Kingdoms. But it was enough to have Stannis wanting to claim the throne. 

“I think it would be best to convince the Lord of the North to promise one of his youngest to the Twins, that way Walder Frey will be sated, and perhaps Winterfell will send provisions for the foreseeable winter,” offered Kevan.

Cersei chimed in, “Winter is coming, that’s what those Stark’s love to tell everyone, isn’t it.” Her laugh rang like the bells on the Sept of Balor. “We already have one in our pocket, and now you’d sell another.” 

“Stop drinking, sister. It is most unbecoming.” 

She lifted her glass, wine sloshing over the top as Kevan cleared his throat, again. “Our last order of business, the Wall is demanding more men. They cannot keep the Wildlings at bay with fewer than one thousand, and most flee or freeze once sent beyond the Wall.” 

He began to look uneasy. “Talk of… monsters of ice and fire beyond the Wall has begun to grow. People are worried, your Grace. For if the whit-” 

Tywin surged from his chair, startling his children and younger brother. Three sets of eyes watched the King clench his jaw tightly, grinding his teeth, speaking softly. “I will handle the Wall when I see fit. Leave us,” he commanded Kevan, watching his Hand lightly shut the door. 

It was Cersei who broke the tension; “I’ve never thought of my Father as a man who’s scared of myths and legends.” 

Tywin glowered at his daughter. “You’d be a fool to think the threat beyond the Wall will simply vanish. They’ve previously breached the Wall, and before I leave my legacy to you two _idiots_ , they will attempt it again.” 

“Can you not simply send double, triple the men they have?” For once, Tyrion did not partake in the wine his sister guzzled down.

“How strong can these monster’s truly be against steel and forged swords?” 

“Stronger than you know, Tyrion.” _Stronger than any man or army will know._

“Can we finally speak about what I came here for, Father?” Cersei sneered at the two Lannister men with hazy eyes. “Or shall we keep pretending to be civil for Mother’s ghost?” 

“Why is it you find a way to bring up Mother in some way or another in my presence? Every, damn, time, Cersei.” 

She hiccupped. “Because you killed her.” 

Tyrion had the decency to look away from her cruel gaze. “If that is all, Father, I’d best be on my way.” 

Tywin watched his two children, wondering and cursing the Gods for not taking him with Joanna. Being dead in the Sept next to his wife’s corpse would be a better life than watching his family legacy destroy itself.

Cersei, if she ever took the throne, would resemble the Mad King- the _Mad Queen,_ they’d call her- killing as she pleased while insanity bled through her veins. Tyrion, though cunning and wise, preferred the company of whores. Jamie had no chance to flourish the house name, the cursed Kingsguard cloak hiding his failure as his son. 

“Not yet,” Tywin instructed his youngest. “Speak, Cersei.” 

She sat up straighter, setting down her empty glass and smiling at nothing. “I’ve sent home all the girls unworthy for you, Father. The ugly, the fat, the ones clearly no longer maiden’s, and those who would not be fit to rule.”

She nodded to her brother, “Though Tyrion saw to letting one slip by, no doubt some plot of his. The Welcome Feast will commence in three hours time, and you’ll have your pick from seventy nine maidens of Westeros.”

Tyrion choked on his own spit. “Seventy-nine? What happened to the thousands of girls sent from far and wide for the King’s approval? Maybe I’ve forgotten a woman’s anatomy, but you are no King, sister.” 

Tyrion pushed his point, “This was not your choice to make.” 

“I gave her the right, Tyrion,” their Father added, sitting once more with a heavy sigh. “I do not want a marriage, nor do I wish to spend my time fending off crying women from my chambers. I’m King of Westeros; I have more important matters to attend to. Even now, I’ll have girls no older than my grandchildren trying to seduce me to my own bed.” 

“Though I must confess,” Tywin began.

“If I had a shred of hope that my three children could take my place when I die, I would have no need for another heir. But here we are, and I look at you two everyday and ask the Gods what I’ve done to deserve you. If you were not Lannister’s,” he spat their family name, “I’d have had you killed.” 

“But we are, Father, aren’t we.” 

Standing, neigh stumbling, Cersei allowed her hand to drag along the center table on her way to the door. “I’d have your squire prepare your finest cloak. You’ll need a lot more than that face to catch your bride.” 

Wincing as the door slammed, Tyrion climbed off his chair and bowed to his father. “Your Grace.” 

Alone at last, Tywin took a shuddering breath. Waiting a few minutes, he slipped from the Tower of the Hand and quietly made his way to his chambers, content to brood until his presence was required again. Preparing for battle was simpler than this, readying armor and shining swords easier than wooing empty-headed children. 

He was Tywin Lannister, he did not _woo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated!
> 
> Next up: The Welcome Feast ft. Tywin seeing Sansa


	4. The Welcome Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tune in with Jon and Sandor
> 
> and
> 
> The Welcome Feast!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Thanks to everyone who commented, ya'll are the best!
> 
> quick note: 
> 
> Cersei being titled queen regent by a guard in this chapter is not a mistake
> 
> I... try to figure out the layout of King's Landing, but I don't exactly know where the Black Cells are, so just plz don't @ me at their location thnx
> 
> I start up college again in one week so I'll try to belt out one more chapter before then!

**_ Chapter 4: The Welcome Feast _ **

**_ The Black Cells _ **

“You can’t keep us here!” bellowed Jon Snow. 

Deep under King’s Landing, far below the dragon skulls and bones from long ago were the sworn protectors of Sansa Stark, Jon Snow and Sandor Clegane.

After having been dragged from before the Iron Throne, and spit on by Kingsguard who took joy in their protests, they’d been thrown into a deep, dark cell between the Castle Walls. Barely a light source could be found, a single torch flickering beyond their cell. The stench of rotted flesh pierced their sense, nearly emptying their stomachs. 

Men from all ranges of Westeros lined the cells; Martell soldiers, Winterfell knights, Tyrell bannerman. Next to them, a man with shoulder length locks hummed a loose tune, fingering his cloak.

Some men were bleeding, exhibiting cuts and bruises from the fist of Meryn Trant, others merely resting in silence whilst waiting for anyone to come release them. It was a pitiful place to be in, and Jon felt his temper roar. 

The brown haired man stuck an arm through the cell bars.

“Why do you insist on yelling for them to let you on? Some of us have been here for _days_. If they were going to release us, they would have already done so.” 

Jon slapped away the offending hand that had been held out to be shaken. “How can you be silent when they’ve taken us away from our women? Who knows what they’ve done to them.” 

“Not much, I’d suppose. If they were dead or worse, don’t you think we’d be dead too?” 

Begrudgingly, Jon found no fault in that logic.

If Sansa were harmed, or worse, _dead,_ then he and Sandor would’ve no doubt been thrown into Blackwater Bay, or simply stabbed in their sleep. Not that they wouldn’t go down without a fight, especially Sandor.

Though he kept silent about it, Jon- as well as all of Winterfell- knew Sandor held a soft spot for his sister, and that he’d die for her. 

Off to the side of their wide cell, Sandor rested his eyes. 

“Has anyone ever escaped the Black Cells?” He eyed the thick, black, iron forged bars. 

The brown haired man chuckled. “It would be a feat worthy of a true knight. I’d wager twenty dragons on the man who could. Perhaps your friend has a better chance than any of us.” 

“Who are you? What house do you hail from?” 

Once again, the man stuck out his arm, flexing his long tanned fingers, “Loras, of the House Tyrell. Brother to Margaery and Willas Tyrell.” He raised an expectant brow, “And you?” 

“Jon Snow, bastard of Ned Stark, the Lord in the North. Sworn protector to my sister, Sansa.” He added. Carefully, he shook Loras’s waiting hand, noting the softer than silk flesh of his palm.

Knight’s skin normally varied between tough as leather and cracked beyond comparison, yet Loras’ hands felt smooth as virgin’s thighs. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Jon Snow.” Loras said, “And your friend is…?” 

“Fuck off.” Jon turned, hiding his smile at Sandor’s still shut eyes with a nasty snarl still firmly in place. 

“I suppose that’s fair." Taking his hand back, Loras leant against the side of his cell. In the flickering light, Jon spotted flat silver armor engulfed in vines of flowers that roamed his shoulders, thin green sheets of cloth covering his neck while the rest remained protected.

His hair, initially thought to be straight, hung in soft curls mimicking a halo, the face of Loras more heavenly than most men. 

“You’re very pretty, Jon Snow. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

_Cut those silly locks,_ Lady Catelyn had spat more than once with venomous eyes; _you resemble a maiden more than Arya._

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a cunt?” asked Sandor, shuffling to get comfortable against the wall. Luckily, instead of taking offense as most wood. Loras belted a haughty laugh, even slapping his knee. 

Barely a moment passed before footfalls rang through all of the trapped men's ears, and two Lannister knights took place, light flickering gold in Jon’s eyes. From afar, he could barely see their faces, but he hated them nonetheless. 

“Under the order of Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, your stay in the Black Cells shall continue posthaste.”

Before the uproar could begin, he continued, “But fear not; following tonight’s welcome feast, your release will depend on King Tywin’s choice of bride. On the morrow, you shall return from whence you came with the girl whomst you arrived with. Until such a time as you are free, remain at peace.” 

The other guard chortled, “A Lannister always pays his debts.” 

They were gone as fast as they’d come, the Iron Gate shutting behind their laughing golden behinds. Oh, how Jon longed to slice them in half, right their head from shoulders. Looking up at the dark cover of night, he prayed for his sweet, sweet sister; that she was all right and well, not being poked and prodded by ruthless Lannister after Lannister.

She was too good for _them_ , for this place.

“Well,” Loras drawled, gracefully plopping onto the hard, chilled, stone floor. “I suppose we have a long night ahead of us.”

His head leaned back, eyes closed with not a crease of worry on his face. “Sleep well, Jon Snow. You’ll need it.” 

Taking place away from the rumbling snores of Sandor, Jon stared into the darkness, praying for his sister.

* * *

Striding down the hall, Sansa tried not to openly stare at the other women walking beside her.

 _They’re so beautiful,_ she thought to herself, trying not to shiver as different colored eyes turned to sneer, prompting Margaery to pull her close. It felt wrong to be surrounded by so many stunning women, all different shapes and sizes, different tones of flesh and hair. She spotted Obara and Myranda ahead, stifling a flinch at Myranda’s haughty laughter. Sadly, those were the only faces she recognized. 

She took no shame in saying Winterfell- as well as her Father- had led to a sheltered life, one with few visitors and even less leavings of the Castle Grounds. Arya was her friend, Robb in her neighboring room, Jon- _where was her sweet brother_ \- the giver of sweet roses on her gloomy days, and the Godswood the constant that lacked the feet to flee from her prayers.

She lacked the manners to be a lady of the court, and at a moment like this, it felt suffocating. 

“Relax your shoulders,” whispered Margaery. “I can feel how tense you are. It’s unbecoming, my friend. They can stare all they want, but they cannot touch you.” 

Sansa whispered back, “They’re saying enough with their eyes.” 

“And?” Margaery asked. “As long as their lips remain shut, their eyes hold no power.” 

Sansa nodded, relaxing her shoulders and standing straight.

Fairly quickly, they arrived in the dining hall. It was a room used for lavish feasts with too many guests to count, maidens and squires and knights and whores bustling about one another, seated and unseated, eating and already full, speaking and silent. Near the front of the room was reserved for the Lannister’s, or whoever ruled the Castle. The chairs were lined up behind a stark red table, golden plates and goblets yet to be filled with luscious sweet wine or hard bitter ale. 

There was no hall as nice as this in Winterfell, and Sansa nearly fell as Margaery tugged her to the end of the farthest table. “Here, this should be perfect for you.” 

“But it’s so far away.” She pointed to the table closest to where the Lannister’s would be dining. “Should we not sit… closer?” 

“Sansa,” whispered Margaery. Her friend tugged her close, speaking in the small of her ear.

“I thought you wanted to go home- to Winterfell.” She pointed to the Lannister table, empty of said Lannister’s. “Sitting up there will only put you in the lion’s claws, and we don’t want to do that to you, do we?” 

Uncertainty bubbled in Sansa’s gut, but she nodded at Margaery, gingerly pulling out the ornate chair and sitting down. There were no other girls foolish enough to sit far away from where they would be seen.

Was it not the whole point of this affair, to catch the eye of the Great Lion and be pulled into his chambers? Her cheeks nearly went red at such thoughts. 

“I promise to speak to you before the night is through.” Margaery promised, already striding away with a display of open back, her stunning green dress showing off more than it was hiding.

The dress the Tyrell girl had picked for Sansa did just the opposite, hiding her slender form, not hugging her slim but soft waist and encompassing the expanse of her arms. 

And as more girls bled in, Sansa realized she was more covered than all combined, each one showing off more and more flesh, some pieces nearly turned Sansa’s ears red. She wanted to sink into her chair and be home already. 

“You want to go home too?” came from across the table.

It was a blonde girl with a kind smile and teeth slightly too wide for her mouth.

Her dress was green and blue, embroidered with, no doubt, her house symbol- though one she did not recognize- and Sansa was pleased to not see an egregious amount of skin on display. 

“I suppose so.” Sansa solemnly replied. “What’s your name?” She gave a shy smile, “I’m Sansa.” 

“Lollys,” she said, “Lollys Stokeworth.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lollys.” Sansa looked around as less and less girls started to flutter in. “Why do you want to go home? It’s any girl's dream to marry a King.” 

Lollys scratched her ear, nails tapping an irregular beat on the tabletop. She leaned in close to Sansa, whispering, “I’m…. I’m not a maiden. Not anymore.” 

Sansa reared back in shock; the request for women here was for women untouched- _maidens_.

“Why are you-” 

“I’m in love,” gushed Lollys. “And if I go home, Father will see me to the Silent Sisters for what I’ve done. He doesn’t understand Bronn the way I do. He _loves_ me, I know it.”

 _The Sellsword from the water,_ she wanted to say.

He’d looked a bit old to be with someone as young as Lollys, but Sansa still asked, “Has he asked you to marry him yet? Your Father cannot intervene if you two were to marry.” 

“He’s...” Lollys paused. “He’s scared, I think. But I’ll convince him, I know I will. I just need to stay out of the King’s eyes for tonight and then I’ll be gone.” 

It was like watching the stories of princes and knights rescuing fair maidens, except this one had pages burning into ashes. 

But the downtrodden look on Lollys’ face pierced Sansa’s heart. 

“I bet he loves you more than you know,” assured Sansa. “And you two will be very happy together. I know it.” 

Lollys seemed to accept her words, eyeing Sansa with a smile. “You’d make a great Queen.” 

Finally, all of the women had been seated, and the first Lannister strode in. 

Much to the chagrin of the hall, it was not King Tywin, but instead his son Jamie strode in with the Kingsguard. He stood a head taller above the rest of the guard, roaring lions donning his shoulders as the white coat dragged along the floor. His golden hair seemed ruffled and messy, uncouth and wild to match the flirtatious smirk on his face. It wooed half the maiden’s in their seats, but Sansa was not _that_ simple. 

Next, his younger brother Tyrion waddled in, the same clothes as before donning his form. The hair on his head was less ruffled than Jamie’s and no smirk bore his lips, instead he silently climbed into his chair and sat, waiting. Though he did not look up to meet her eye, she smiled nonetheless. 

Much like the Queen she longed to be, Cersei came next. She’d changed her dress; before it had been the dull but obvious colors of house Lannister, and now shined as bright as their gold plates, roaring lions embroidered into every inch of silk it could.

The neckpiece opened up to show the top of her slim pale chest, and Jamie’s eyes had trouble looking away. While her long legs remained hidden, she still strode with regality to her seat, unceremoniously sitting first. On her face, a look of utter boredom remained. 

Holding her breath and licking her dry lips, Sansa watched the Great Lion of King’s Landing stride into the Hall, hands poised behind his back with his eyes straightforward.

He was much taller than she’d imagined, just about as old but not as curmudgeonly as expected. Still many heads taller than the rest, his fitted red coat defined his tall waist and long legs, knowing she’d have to look up, and up, and up to meet his gaze.

There was rarely anyone who could make her feel small, but King Tywin could do so without trying.

From so far away, she was unable to properly see certain features, but assumed he still held the green eyes of every Lannister. The patriarch of the Lannister House was everything and nothing she’d expected, which luckily, helped her nerves. Looking over at Margaery, the Tyrell girl looked near swooning with her breasts pushed forward, intent to catch Tywin’s eyes. But he had eyes for none, just staring forward. 

“Ladies,” Cersei began, standing with poise.

“It is my honor to welcome you all to King’s Landing, the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Some of you have traveled for days to be here, and my Father has been most eager to see which of you shall take his side by the Iron Throne. To be Queen is not to be pretty, or birth heirs, but to rule and never be ruled. We look forward to meeting you all, and as you all know, a Lannister always pays his debts.” 

She sipped her full wine glass, teeth now stained red. “Let the feast… begin!” 

Sansa nearly collapsed in her chair as the trays upon trays of food began to trickle in. Sweet turnips with a creamy glaze, softly stewed beets with lemon butter sauce, legs of mutton and goat fresh from the morning’s kill, cod and lamprey encrusted with bread and spices, mushrooms baked in meat pies, every fruit from pear to prune, and strawberries piled high. Each and every small wafted under the young woman’s noses, bellies grumbled hungrily. 

“Don’t you think he’s a bit old?” mused Lollys, biting off a chunk of mutton and chewing with her mouth wide open.

“I mean, why don’t they just marry off the Imp and be done with it? Have him pass on the Lannister name.” 

“He’s still handsome, Lollys.” Sansa defended the King, “Any one of us would be lucky to have him.” 

“But none of us could hold a candle to Lady Joanna, and she’s been gone longer than we’ve been alive.” She sucked mutton juice from her fingers.

“Why’d you even wanna try? And I’ve heard things,” she leaned in closer, “about Cersei’s eldest, Joff.” 

There was little known about Cersei and Robert Baratheon’s children- though even that was a questionable statement in itself- aside from their names; Tommen, Myrcella and Joffrey.

Myrcella was the only one she’d seen so far, and had looked nice enough. Tommen, the youngest with hair said to be gold as hay, was rarely seen in public, typically hidden away with his Mother. 

Joffrey, on the other hand, had a reputation unfit for the royal name he’d been born into. Young girls often fled his presence, beaten and bloody with torn dresses and bruised flesh. Hair torn out, teeth ripped apart while blood steadily flooded from their thighs. No doubt a mad king from birth, and Westeros was blessed that he would never lie to the throne.

It would crumble under his touch. 

“Oh dear,” Lollys interrupted Sansa’s train of thought, her eyes trained beyond to the other side of the room. “I spoke too soon.” 

“Hm?” 

“Joff,” she said, like it was obvious. “He’s here. Don’t turn around.” Lollys urged, adding, “He likes red haired ones best.” 

The chair against her back felt all the more rigid, the turnips on her fork sliding off with a _splat_ while the mush in her belly threatened to slide up her throat and out again. Her feet felt all too large for her shoes, and the loose trimmings of the dress were suddenly all too tight. 

“Do you think…” _He’ll talk to me_ were left unsaid, and Lollys kindly shook her head, golden curls spilling over her shoulders.

“He’s talking to Ros at the moment, I think you’re safe.” _For now._

Much to Sansa’s relief, the feast portion of the night had ended, and the dancing had started to commence. While the room was large in itself, working boys and cupbearers maneuvered chairs and ladies to the sides and out of the way, allowing the pale floor to shine on display.

There was nothing like it in Winterfell, no hall for leisuring or parties such as this. It only made her want to dance more, but the thought that Joffrey might sneak up had her hesitant. 

In fact, any worry regarding Tywin or Cersei or Margaery had seemed to flutter away, resting in the back of her mind. 

“M’lady,” came from her right, and her heart plummeted as Lollys’ eyes went rounder than their gold plates. “May I have this dance?” 

Over her shoulder came a pale hand with perfectly trimmed round nails, a wrist with prominent blue veins that led up to a starkly skinny arm. Doing her best to keep a smile, she faced the green eyes of Joffrey Baratheon.

He stood taller than expected, boyish charm hiding in his too large upper teeth and queerly round cheeks, more childish than manlike. His shoulders donned the Lannister lion, and gold poured from chest to toes, her muted colors a harsh contrast to his golden figure. 

“Joffrey, my Lady.” His dry lips pecked her hand, thin lips quirking into a smirk that had her feeling dirty. 

“Sansa, your Grace.” 

His golden eyebrow quirked, his eyes roving up and down in a lewd fashion. “Who dressed you like that?” 

His voice wasn’t nearly as nice as his features. “My friend thought it looked nice.” 

“Your friend’s an idiot.” Joffrey spat. “You look fatter than a pregnant whore.” 

Rearing back as if slapped, Sansa gaped at the grandchild of the King. Is this how people spoke to each other everywhere but Winterfell? _He truly is Cersei’s son._

“Well?” Joffrey snapped, impatiently tapping his foot. “Dance with me. Now.” 

Standing on shaky legs, she held back a gasp as Joffrey all but dragged her to dance, roughly groping too low on her waist. His hands were thorns in her side, cruel and abrasive, possibly even bruising into her softness. It would have been worse had she wore a tight dress; more for Joff to leer at. Over his shoulder, a trio of blonde haired girls glared and turned their noses up. 

Music started to flow from every corner of the room; cello’s violin’s, basses and bassoons rang soothing notes through the throng of dancing couples. King Tywin had yet to stand to a single offered dance- each girl dejectedly limping away with broken pride- and Cersei lingered in her seat, sneering at her eldest son on the hands of Sansa. _Even my son, a fool for a warm, red cunt._

Lingering as well, Tyrion swirled the red in his glass while eyeing his nephew and Sansa over the rim. Honestly, it was a disgusting pair. The way Joff was essentially fondling the poor girls backside was deplorable, and Tyrion downed more wine. 

“Who's that with Joffrey?” Jamie asked his brother. His fork poked at the uneaten mutton. “Quiet a beauty, isn’t she.” 

“Yes, I suppose she is.” 

Jamie raised a brow at his brother, “You know her.” 

“I know plenty of people, brother, as do you.”

“Ah, but I don’t tend to keep the company of girls half my age, Tyrion. A bit scandalous, don’t you think?” 

“I do not…” He sighed deeply through his nose. “I’m not bedding every woman who happens to speak with me.” 

“So you’ve spoken with her? What’s she like?” inquired Jamie. “Would she be a match for Joff?” 

“Heavens no, he’d tear that poor girl in half if he had the strength for it.” The couple twirled in the middle of the hall. “I promised young Sansa I would see her home, and I do make a habit of keeping my promises.” 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Cersei eavesdropping and ready to butt in from the other side of their Father, who’d sat with a sneer the entirety of the meal.

And horribly enough, to all three Lannister children’s surprise, it was Tywin who uttered, “Why would you say something foolish like that?” 

“You’d look stunning in my bed.” Joffrey whispered into her ear, gripping her close as they avoided one another's feet.

She hummed in response as he continued on, “If you're truly a maiden, I’d keep the sheets with your virgin blood for many years to come.” 

Her cheeks resembled flames at his foul words. “Your Grace, that’s… kind of you, I suppose.” 

“It is, isn’t it, Lady Sansa.” Joffrey twirled her through the air; the princess in the arms of the knight. “I wouldn’t let you stay a Lady for long. You’d be mine to do with as I please. I treat my things well, you know. You’d be a Queen.” 

Most women would have swooned for the young prince’s words, fallen down to kiss his boots, even stripped to their smallclothes at the prospect of warming a Lannister’s bed. Instead, it frightened Sansa more than hungry wolves in the night, or the Hound strangling a boy who tried to peek up her skirts. He was a rat trying to sneak his way through the array of displayed meats on the kitchen floor- or at least, he made her feel like a chunk of mutton. 

“Would you like that, Lady Sansa?” His grip tightened tenfold on her waist. 

“I…” She gulped. What did one say to get the lion off your back? “I do not…” 

Her voice died into a whisper as a hush overtook the hall; conversations screeching to a halt as all eyes turned to the Lannister table, where funnily enough, even Cersei had allowed her wine to steadily stream down the front of her dress, covering her breasts in bright, red wine.

Margaery rose as well, smoothing down her dress and pushing out her breasts, watching hungrily as Tywin- with all the grace of a caged lion- stepped onto the patterned floor and strode directly toward the one pair who’d not parted. 

Up close, Sansa could see the green in his eyes, and how they held all the strength and intimidation that only a King could have. Any sane man would bend the knee with just one look.

With time, his Lannister golden locks had lost their golden sheen, but the whiteness of his thin locks reminded her of the winds of winter; pale and fragile, yet strong and resilient. He stood two heads above her, and the closer he got, the higher up she had to look. 

Then, finally, Joffrey realized her Tully blues had been locked over his shoulder. 

“What’s caught your eye, you silly girl?” 

“Grandson.” 

She felt Joffrey’s muscles tense up under her hands, his entire form turning stiff as a corpse. A sick as it was, she felt a tiny flicker of glee at his fear. 

“Grandfather,” said Joffrey upon turning to face the tall lion. “What brings you down here? I was just inviting the lovely Lady Sansa” his hand reached out to pull her closer, an offering of the timid game to the hungry beast “to a tour of my chambers.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Tywin pursed his lips at his grandson. Up close, his green eyes swirled like wildfire. “You’re dismissed.” 

She assumed he’d been talking to her, but had barely taken a step away when those wildfire eyes shot to her. “Not you.”

He turned back to Joffrey, who’d been clenching his jaw so hard she feared he’d break his teeth. “You. _Leave.”_

She was barely in tune to Joffrey’s angered muttering, his face turning sour at the blatant disregarding of his presence by the King, and solely kept her gaze on King Tywin. Barely a beat passed before he lifted one arm and snapped, the _click_ of his fingers instantly having the choir of men rumbling a soft tune through the hall once more. 

“My Lady.” Tywin held out his arm, palm up and waiting. 

“Your Grace.” She replied, gracefully resting the palm of her hand on his arm, gasping when he sensually tugged her close, forcing her neck up to meet his gaze.

This is what it must have felt like to be caught in the trap, ensnared in the web and tangled beyond belief. To have hungry eyes watching you while firm hands gripped your waist- the feel of being in his arms was making me feel warm inside-and unable to run or hide. 

Dreams of running back to Winterfell began to crumble underneath their feet as he guided her in a slow dance, uncaring of the foul gazes of every girl in the room, especially Cersei, who’d grind her teeth to dust if she stared any longer.

Steam bellowed from Margaery’s ears, while Lollys looked on with a silly smile. 

_You’re silly, Sansa,_ Arya liked to say whenever talk of marriage and knights came about, _Silly, silly, Sansa._

 _Yes,_ Sansa grinned, _I suppose I am._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Enemies in High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Winterfell, a raven brings news to the Warden in the North. 
> 
> and 
> 
> Tywin confronts Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone commenting and giving kudos! I appreciate it!
> 
> Also, we're expanding the plot in this huge chapter. I did rewrite the last portion twice so I hope you all like it! 
> 
> Also, remember, this story isn't canon for some things! so just go with it or comment for confirmation! 
> 
> Enjoy this ungodly long 14 page chapter!
> 
> ....honestly, this took so long to read im sorry for any mistakes :)

**_Chapter 5: Enemies in High Places_ **

The first thing Margaery did upon returning to her room with Sansa in tow was slamming the other girl against the door. Her nails dug into the white flesh of Sansa’s pale, pristine neck, wanting to snap the other girl in half like a twig.

It angered the Tyrell girl to see how frail Sansa was, how pretty and perfect she’d looked in the arms of King Tywin. It wasn’t fair; _it was supposed to be me._

“How could you _betray_ me like that?” spat Margaery with flaming eyes.

“I’ve been nothing but kind to you since you came, and this is how you repay me? By dancing with the man I came here to marry.” 

Trying to hold back tears and scrambling to remove the hand holding her neck, Sansa blubbered, “I’m so sorry! I swear, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t tell him no. He’s the King, Margaery, I must do as he commands.” 

“I thought you were my friend.” 

“I am!” 

Margaery leaned in close to her face, sneering with unadulterated malice. “You’re nothing but a _whore_.” Her other hand reached for the door lock, “And I won’t share quarters with a whore.” 

The wind was knocked out of Sansa as Margaery pushed her out of their chambers and slammed the door shut, leaving the red haired girl flat on the chilled stone floor.

A few minutes passed before Sansa attempted to stand up- there hadn’t even been time to change her dress- and wiped the dirt from her palms. She sighed to herself. There was something desperately wrong with King’s Landing; it turned good people sick and cruel. 

It infected Margaery with jealousy and rage, and no doubt, other girls would now sneer at Sansa. It wasn’t her fault; truly, that King Tywin had strode from his table to come to her aid. And Joffrey, the golden haired devil, his sick words pillaging her thoughts, had nearly had his claws in her. 

But Tywin, standing two heads too tall, had danced with _her._

It was a marvelous feeling while it lasted, the rush of being pulled close and swept up into someone else’s arms. It was close to the times Jon would swing her in his arms at the Winterfell Winter Feast, laughing into her neck whenever Mother disapprovingly glared. 

_He’s a bastard,_ she liked to remind her daughter, _and he’ll never be anything more_

Gods, she missed Robb and Arya and Rickon and her own chambers with mountains of pillows that only knew of her warmth with covers softer than silk. It was a confliction of the mind for young Sansa; to be desired, but at what cost?

Not seeing the point in trying to get back in with Margaery, the Tyrell girl was far too angry to see sense, Sansa lightly walked down the dim corridor, not exactly knowing where to go.

Lord Tyrion was the first to mind, him being another friend in her King’s Landing dismal group of friends, but had no clue to where his quarters resided. It wasn’t as though the Castle were small; it was thrice the size of Winterfell. 

Quickly, she became lost amongst the never endings bends and turns, twists and stairs that led up and down or nowhere at all. She nearly jumped with joy when she spotted a figure at the end of another corridor. “Hello?” she whisper-yelled, scurrying in their direction. 

“I’m sorry for disturbing you at this hour, but if you could…” Up close, the figure's face came into view, and she nearly cried with relief. Finally, a familiar face.

“Lord Baelish.” 

They stood neck and neck, and she shivered as his lips curved up in a smirk, the grey of his moustache, as always, standing out. Grey lined the sides of his skull, and his entire form was covered head to toe in a slim coat. His nickname was Littlefinger, a small man from the slip of the _Fingers_ , and there were stories about him that made her not want to stand too close.

Master of Coin by day, Whoremonger by night, and a list of other things not fit for repeating. 

“Sansa,” he breathed. “Beautiful as ever.”

His eyes lingered far too long on the top of her frumpled dress, before moving back to her wide, blue eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of having your company on this most fine night?” 

Looking around to ensure privacy, Sansa whispered, “I fear I’ve made an enemy tonight, and it’s not one I’d expected, but I did deserve.” 

“And what poor soul has decided to become an enemy of yours, Sweetling?” inquired Lord Baelish. “An enemy of yours is an enemy of mine.” 

“Margaery Tyrell.” 

Lord Baelish chuckled, “Of course, I’d expect nothing less from a Stark.”

His face turned grim, “The Tyrell’s are not a House I would take for granted, Sweetling. Olenna Tyrell has killed people for less than whatever you’ve done to bring her upon granddaughters wrath.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. She’s only angry that King Tywin chose to dance with me and not her. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have simply told him no.” 

“But you didn’t want to tell him no, did you?”

“I…” She let her voice fade off down the hall, watching Lord Baelish, whose eyes were pierced into slits.

“I didn’t. Is that wrong of me, Lord Baelish?” 

He quickly stepped closer to her than ever before, one of his hands creeping around rest on the small of her back, his thumb rubbing the loose material in smooth motions. 

He shook his head, “No, Sweetling, you’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, it would be remiss of you to deny the King the chance to dance with the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.”

He whispered, “You’re more beautiful than your Mother ever was.”

At the mention of her Mother, she grew tense, wanting to be rid of his presence and gaze. “Thank you, Lord Baelish.” 

She’d expected him to back down, or back away, but he leaned in closer, minty breath penetrating her senses. It felt violating to be this close to a man as old as Mother.

Trying to hide her discomfort, she whispered his name, voice cracking in her throat as his other hand started to trail the curve of her hips. Once his hand started drifting dangerously close to the area near her small clothes, she yelped “Lord Baelish!” 

Immediately, he was off and moving away, smirk wiped off his face while apologies poured from his mouth. “Forgive me, Sweetling.” He looked down in shame.

“I find my hands tend to wander in the presence of beautiful women.” 

“I’m not one of your brothel women, Lord Baelish.” 

“I know this.”

“Then please,” Sansa begged. “Never touch me like that again.” 

“Of course,” Lord Baelish nodded. 

“Littlefinger!” came from down the hall, and Sansa thanked the Seven that someone else had arrived upon them. It was a voice she recognized, and hid back a small smile as Bronn, the Sellsword, came to a halt directly in front of Lord Baelish, staring down at the thin man while his hand lay dormant at his sword. Bronn wasn’t a large man, but his advantage came in the weight of his muscles, much different than that of the thinness of Lord Baelish. 

“Can I help you?” Lord Baelish’s tone was sour. “I don’t believe either of us require the help of a Sellsword at the moment.” 

“And I don’t believe this young girl is in need of the company of a whoremonger, or is there some fancy new title you’ve gone ahead and given yourself?” Bronn chuckled down at Petyr Baelish, watching the small man's eyes dance with anger.

Nothing was more fun than pissing off people with the title of _Lord._

“I don’t believe you’re hired by the Lannister’s.” Petyr started but Bronn cut him off. 

“Oh, but I am.” Bronn smiled. “I work under Tyrion, therefore, I can do whatever the bloody hell I’d like. Except kill people. Then of course, I’ll do it for the right amount of coin just like any other man. ‘S why I became a Sellsword, to kill people like you.”

Turning to address Sansa, Bronn’s tone turned soft, “Are you alright, love?”

His tone softened considerably, and she nodded, stepping forward. “Lord Baelish was just leaving.” 

Seeing himself outnumbered, Petyr bowed to Sansa. “My Lady,” before swiftly descending down the corridor and further into darkness. Sansa waited until he was out of sight to address Bronn. 

“You have my thanks, Ser. Lord Baelish is very insisting when he wants to be.” 

Bronn scoffed, “You mean he doesn’t know when he’s not wanted.”

He took in her state of dress; the wrinkled dress, hair better resembling a raven’s nest, and a chill on her cheeks. “What’re you doin’ out here anyway? I thought all the _maidens_ were confined to their chambers so people like Baelish don’t try and sniff up your skirts.” 

Her cheeks grew red, “I would not be here if there were any other way. I’ve no room for the night, Ser Bronn.” 

“I’m not a Ser, girl,” Bronn spat the title, resting his hands on the lip of his breeches. “And what’s this about not having a room? Tyrion mentioned a pretty redhead staying with the Tyrell one.” 

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.” 

Bronn sighed to himself; if he weren’t so caught up in Lollys’ soft skirts and warm cunt, this one here would’ve done nicely. Real pretty with a nice face, two of the best things a woman could have, but a little too soft for his tastes.

Also preferred a little more meat on their bones, something to squeeze. Maybe it was just the dress, which he tried not to frown at- it hid all the good bits. 

He knew he couldn’t just leave the girl here by herself, counting on Littlefinger attempting to slither his way back up her skirts, or Meryn Trant beating in her pretty face. He’d had the pleasure of hearing from Tyrion about the way his Father had elbowed away Joffrey, the little blonde haired shit, and had danced with this girl.

Maybe the Lannister stump would know what to do with her. 

“Well, how about I bring you to Tyrion?” offered Bronn, holding out a hand to her. “See if he can find some new lodgings for the lady.” 

She easily slipped her hand in his, “Thank you.” 

It was quiet for the first few moments of their stroll, Sansa taking in the new territory of the Castle, while Bronn kept his eyes pierced for any spying little birds or Kingsguard. That Varys had a knack for having his little shits hidden in every corner, and the last thing he needed was anyone trying to spread lies about him. 

“Why were you out here?” she asked, watching the flames flicker along the walls. They reminded her of nights at home, sneaking away from Sandor’s watchful gaze to comfort Arya during a storm. 

Bronn shrugged, “No reason. Couldn’t sleep. Just felt like it, really.” 

“Were you with Lollys?” 

He had to resist the urge to reach for his sword, instead squeezing the hand in his and coming to a stop. His tone took a sour note, “She tell you something?” 

Gods, killing Lollys for talking too much was the last thing he wanted to do. Bronn had begun to actually enjoy her high-pitched squeals and talkative nature. 

“She said she loves you very much. That she wants to marry you.” 

His stomach dropped to the cold floor, and it was Sansa that ended up dragging him to walk again, waiting for him to take the lead. Eventually, he did, though his pace was much quicker than before. 

“Do you love her?” Sansa whispered. “As she loves you?” 

Bronn found it hard to find the right words; did he love Lollys? 

“I…” he gulped. “I like her, I suppose. Makes me laugh.” 

“But do you love her, Bronn? Love is very different from liking someone.”

She thought of her family; “I love my Mother, Father, even my little sister who hates that I long to be a lady like our Mother. But I love them, no matter what. I _like_ Lord Tyrion, and even you. There’s a big difference, don’t confuse the two.” 

All at once, Bronn could see why Tyrion wanted him to keep an eye on this one; “I like you, and I don’t like a lot of people. And I’ll take care of Lollys, don’t you worry your pretty little head. All’s you need to worry about is staying in the King’s good graces.” 

From the corner of his eyes, he saw her shoulders fall. “I don’t know how.” 

“You’ve been doing swell so far, my Lady. Just keep it up until he can’t resist your girlish charms and stuffs you with a couple of heirs.” 

She slapped his shoulder with no real strength, turning brighter than her hair. “You’re foul.” 

“And you’re halfway up the King’s golden cock, love.” 

Once more, she slapped his shoulder with a huff. He snickered aloud, spotting Tyrion’s room a few feet away. Years before, the room housing the Imp had been closer to Cersei and Jamie. Room filled with silk sheets and handmaidens with bottles upon bottles of sweet wine. His current room was now far from the sun of King’s Landing; a secret hidden away in the depths. 

Before Bronn could knock on the wooden door, Sansa pulled him into a hug, noting he smelled of the salty sea.

Feeling bold, she lightly peeked his cheek, “Thank you, Bronn. Lollys is lucky to have someone like you” 

At a loss for words, and growing surprisingly red, Bronn slammed his hand on the door before striding away, muttering curses about pretty girls with empty heads. Perhaps a chat with his Lollys was more in need than he thought. 

“Lady Sansa?” Tyrion’s voice drowned out her musing of the Sellsword, and she smiled down at the dwarf, his questions flying.

“What on earth are you doing here at this hour? Has something happened?” 

Seeing his distress, and feeling warmed by it that he actually seemed to care, she explained the events that had transpired through the night. His face turned down at hearing the actions of Margaery, brow rising at Littlefinger’s advances, and lastly, a warm smile at the chivalrousness of Bronn. How wrong of him to ever doubt the moral compass of the paid man. 

This was… an opportune moment brought straight to his door.

The very girl who’d danced with his Father just hours before; whilst Cersei had nearly drowned in sweet wine and ground her teeth to powder and Jamie had simply watched. They’d moved in tandem, barely whispering a soft word in the small space between their close bodies.

Truly, it had been a sight to see. And now, he had the chance to bring them even _closer._

Much to Sansa’s surprise, Tyrion did not bring her into his chambers. Instead, he nudged his way out. “This will not do, Lady Sansa.”

Taking her hand in his, he began to lead her down a different path. 

“Let us speak with my Father about your missing rooms.” Doing his best to hold back a childish giggle at her horrified face, he continued tugging her along.

“I’m sure he can be of _some_ help.” 

* * *

**_Winterfell_ **

Spring had reigned over the North, but the chill still crept into the walls of Winterfell, never truly leaving. Clouds and fog lingered in the distant grassy plains, the sun still hidden away for days to come. Farmers could not wager when the weather would turn in their favor, praying as their last resort. It was a blessing that Winterfell stocked up well during their warmer months, but as Ned Stark stared down from his chambers, he felt amiss. 

Perhaps it was due to the silence that lingered in the halls since his eldest, and most innocent daughter, Sansa, had left over a sennight ago with the boy who tainted his wife’s thoughts and brought out the worst in her. 

It pained him when Cat felt the need to spit on Jon, to insult his good deeds and punish his accomplishments. 

Lyanna would’ve hated how Ned allowed the treatment to continue, he was sure, but at least he’d denied the attempts to have Jon sent to the Wall, to become a brother of the Night’s Watch. Unable to father children, unable to take a wife, unable to leave the Wall with only death awaiting deserters.

Two young men had been found trembling in fear, spouting mumblings about monsters in the night that had taken their friends and brothers, and they’d been beheaded miles outside of Winterfell. 

More and more whispers had found their way past the Wall, ones of _whitewalkers_ and the dead rising in the cold of night with eyes bluer than the Narrow Sea.

The Long Night had never been much more than tales to scare children into never leaving a plate empty, in fear that one day the sun would not shine for too many moons to count, and their plates would never again be full. White walkers were created by Septas to frighten little girls who refused to dress warm for the winter- _the Night King likes them cold._

“Father?” came from outside the door, bringing him back to the moment at hand. He stepped away from the window and watched Arya, who once again refused to dress like a lady and sported breeches covered in dirt, gently shutting the door. She quickly embraced him, face molded to his robes. 

“What ails you, darling?” cooed Ned at his youngest. “Do you require a Maester?” 

Her answer was mumbled and unintelligible, so gently pried back her face, silently asking her to repeat it.

“Is Sansa coming home yet?” 

Ned stared down into her wide blue eyes with a soft smile. “I thought you would’ve liked the time away from your sister. You two can never seem to find a quiet moment together.”

“But…” She glared into her Father’s eyes, eventually leaning back into his arms. 

“It’s not fair! I want to leave home too and- and I don’t have anyone to talk to except Robb and Bran and Rickon and- and I wish Jon was here to teach me how to use a sword and laugh at Sansa when she tells me to be a lady.” 

“It sounds like you miss tormenting your sister.” 

Her cheeks resembled a ripened tomato, “She’s mean to me too.”

Wrenching herself from his arms, she paced back and forth like a caged wolf. “Everyone always takes Sansa’s side; you and Mother, and especially Jon. I’m good too.” 

No one could ever question whether Stark blood ran through his Arya, and he softly led her to his desk, plopping her down on the chair. 

Settling down on one knee, he spoke kindly to his daughter, “Do you not think your sister misses you too? I would even say that she’s lonelier than you are, all the way in the Capital, surrounded by people and places she’s never seen. Sansa is strong and she knows how to use her head, but I know for a fact if she could have brought you, there would’ve been no question about it.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do,” he insisted. “When I was your age, I too had sisters and brothers, and we didn’t always see eye to eye. But your Uncle Benjen has always been loyal to our family, and even though he rides beyond the Wall, he will always be my brother.” 

“What about your sister?” 

Memories of Lyanna’s smiles, her laughter and snickers, blinded him behind his eyelids, and he blinked them away. There would be a time to speak of Lyanna and what she’d left behind, but his daughter needed a kind voice not muddled with broken memories.

“My only wish is that you could have met her.” 

“Was she pretty like Sansa?” Arya asked, fingers wringing her shirt. “Or was she strong like me?” 

“Don’t let your Mother hear you say that.” Ned chuckled. “One can be pretty _and_ strong. And Lyanna embodied both. She was…” 

Nearly closing his eyes, he thought back. “Smarter than any Septa, and a better archer than even Benjen, But her wit is what set her apart from the others. She always managed to find her way into battle plans, making her mark wherever she could.” 

“She sounds amazing.” Arya leaned forward, “Do you think I’ll be like her?” 

Lyanna’s screams still haunted his nightmares. “You’ll be better.” 

Three soft knocks from the door had both Starks turning around, Catelyn leaning in with a keen smile. “Am I interrupting?” 

Arya leapt from her seat, “No, I’m alright now. I think I’ll go find Robb; he promised he’d help me with my archery.”

She leaned up to peek Catelyn on the cheek, and the two parents watched her run off. Once her steps were far off enough, Catelyn shut the door and strode to her husband, leaning down to peek his soft lips. 

She could hardly imagine a world without Ned at her side. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of my lady wife’s company?” Ned’s hands rounded to her backside, surprised to feel something hidden against the small of her back. Gently wrenching it from her grasp, he brought it before his face. 

The first sigil was that of the Tully's, an open-mouthed blue fish staring back. The second sigil was the crow of the Night’s Watch, the black wax congealed and cold.

Catelyn uttered,“I dared not open them without you.” 

“A wise choice,” Ned responded, tearing open the first letter. The parchment was covered in rough black words, clearly written in a hurry with words curved together and smudged. His brow grey frigid and tense, and Catelyn rubbed his shoulder. 

“Stannis Baratheon,” Ned began, sighing deeply at his wife, “Has fled Dragonstone with intentions to side with Lysa Arryn against the Capitol, as well as any other House willing in the North. Edmure and Brynden have both received the offer to bend the knee for Stannis. He needs men, food and enough weapons to march once more.” 

He looked to his wife, “Edmure is asking for House Stark to break allegiance with the Lannister’s and take the knee before Stannis, as well as supply enough men to storm any unwilling houses in the North.” 

For a moment, Catelyn was silent, but then she exploded.

“My brother is a fool to even think of taking the knee to Stannis. His time on the Iron Throne has never and will never come to be. Robert died trying to overthrow Tywin Lannister, what does he think would happen to him? The Lannister army is the largest and strongest in Westeros.” She coughed a heartless laugh. 

“He doesn’t stand a chance.” 

“If they have enough men and Houses who pledge loyalty, they’d have a chance of making it across the Kingsroad.” 

“Not before Winter sets in.” 

“I don’t think Stannis cares.” Ned coaxed his wife forward into his arms, hugging her close. “I’ve always cared for your family, Cat, but I will not kneel for a false king.” 

“Such as I would never ask such a thing of you.” She fingered the lapel of his top, mouth downturned in a frown. 

“We must speak to Edmure. If he gives Stannis the men and the shelter when they arrive, and then they somehow make it to King’s Landing… Sansa is _there_ , Ned."

"I will not allow our daughter to be put in danger. Not again.” 

He swallowed deeply. “We stand together, Cat. Bound by the vows we took under the Godswood. Tully blood or Stark courage, you have my heart and my trust.” 

For the second time that hour, he took in the knee before a woman in his life. “What would you have me do?” 

Staring down at her husband, Catelyn wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. Most were dragged to unhappy marriages filled with anger and disgust, but Cat had only ever loved Ned. He was the knight in the darkness, the fire during the winter’s storm, and that he was always willing to listen to her words, made her heart soar. 

“Perhaps,” Cat snickered at her chivalrous husband. 

“You should read what Castle Black has sent. It could be important.” She held out the letter to him, watching as his muscles ached when he made to stand. 

Old age had started to settle into the both of them; they were not as young as they once were. She watched him gently tear the seal, this letter much shorter and too a point. 

He read aloud as his eyes skimmed, “As suspected, they’re in need of men and rations. Twenty-seven more have fallen beyond the Wall, which leaves less than three hundred men meant to man the North’s greatest defense. And…” 

Her heart plummeted at the look that crossed her husband’s face. “What? What’s happened?” 

“Mance Rayder is dead.” 

* * *

**_The Red Keep_ **

The Reed Keep is anything but what Sansa had anticipated. The walls were taller than Winterfell, gloomier than Winterfell, and had stairs leading in every direction. Unlike Winterfell, its corridors outnumber its stairs.

Of course, the predominant color was that of House Lannister- red and gold. Every curtain displayed a roaring lion, every chair embroidered with gold fringe and red dyed oak. 

More and more guards lined each hall as they walked in silence, and she made a point to not make eyes at a single man. Though, she could feel their leering gazes on her backside, could taste their desire.

Luckily, Tyrion stuck closely to her side, his hand wrapped tightly around her own. His presence calmed her frayed nerves, but her belly still felt as though her insides would flop about the floor of the Red Keep. 

Was it still too late to turn back? _Probably._

Would the Guards crush her to the floor before her second step? _Most definitely_

On the other hand…

“Are you sure about this?” she whispered down, squeezing his hand.

She felt his squeeze back; _yes._

An eternity later, they reached a pair of doors as tall as the ceiling, handlebars made of gold and adorned with jewels that would cut your palm if gripped too tightly. If not for Tyrion’s presence, she would’ve squeezed the jewels until they cut flesh, dirtying them with her blood. Perhaps it would bring back the feeling in her arms. 

“My Lady,” Upon releasing her hand, Tyrion spoke softly into the empty keep, no guards stationed at the moment.

She would’ve thought there would be _more_ outside his chambers. “You mustn't show fear in front of my Father.” 

“How…” she gulped. “What would you have me do instead?” 

She felt him shrug. “Be yourself, my Lady. It’s gotten you this far.” 

Three knocks echoed through the air, and her heart felt ready to burst, the ground an icy field under her feet. The ache in her belly grew worse than the pain of her moon blood, except no milk of poppy could calm her nerves now.

What if he simply took one look and sent her away, or worse, had her punished for being disturbed? Had Tyrion too been poisoned by the air of King’s Landing, having dropped her at the lion’s feet?

She was ready to flee with the speed of a stallion when the door was wrenched open, and the green venomous eyes of Cersei stared down at the two of them. 

“Sister,” Tyrion said with utter surprise in his tone. “What brings you to Father’s chambers at this hour? Not drinking him out of house and home, I’d hope.” 

As expected, Cersei completely ignored the irritating voice of her brother, eyes firmly drilled on Sansa, who tried to not to shiver at the piercing gaze. “Why’re you here, Sansa?”

The lack of title would’ve been rude from any other, but Cersei was a Lannister; she didn't have to. 

“She’s here-” 

“I wasn’t asking you.” She spat at the Imp before turning to Sansa again. “Why… are you… here?” 

Oh gods, this was it. Her stomach rolled and turned and twisted horribly, fear of saying the wrong and right thing bringing near tears to her eyes. No Septa made her this scared, not a single sound in the night this fearful for her life, and truthfully, she wanted to _die._

The silence had lasted too long for Cersei’s liking, and a sneer overcame her beautiful features; “You’re here to try and slither into my Father’s bed.”

She laughed a deep grotesque sound; “I expected that from the likes of the Tyrell whore, or perhaps the Karstark bitch. But you’re worse than both of them, aren’t you.” 

Tyrion couldn’t tell if she was drunk or just feeling cruel, “Cersei, please, don’t.” 

“Don’t what, brother?” asked Cersei while feigning confusion. “Should I not tell her of the whore’s you’ve brought before Father in the past, and how he strung them up before our very eyes?” She looked at him with disgust, “You’ve always had a soft spot for pretty whores.”

_I’m not a whore_ nearly fell from her mouth, but was saved at the very last moment by the appearance of King Tywin. He’d wrenched open the door after Cersei had, once again, insulted her. He loomed over the three of them. 

“What do you want?” Tywin’s voice could crack steel, and thankfully, his question was at Tyrion. She wasn’t sure she could’ve answered if she tried.

Tyrion cleared his throat, slipping his hand from Sansa’s and gesturing to her form, “I believe the Lady Sansa here is in need of new lodgings for the night.” 

Cersei pursed her lips. “If she’s unable to make good with another girl, she can sleep with the horses.” 

“It’s not her fault she’s been denied entry to her chambers.” 

“And?” Cersei clicked her tongue. “I fear you’ve fallen for her sweet words, Tyrion. She’ll not be the first nor last girl to lie her way to the Throne.” 

“And what of you, sister?” Tyrion bit back. “Have you not done everything in your power to frighten half the wombs of Westeros? Am I not allowed to believe the words of one girl?”

Finally, Tywin intervened. 

“Enough,” he spat to his children. “Leave, both of you.” All at once, his green eyes turned to Sansa, and her stomach dropped to the floor.

“Come, Lady Sansa,” he pushed Cersei out of the doorway and tugged Sansa in, “I've been meaning to have a word with you.” She tried not to grasp at the strong grip on her wrist. It could snap her in half.

The door slammed in Cersei’s gaping jaw, and the last thing she saw was Tyrion’s smirk. 

* * *

The first thing Tywin noticed is that she hadn’t changed out of clothes from the feast. 

Previously, after sending away his vile grandson, one that would do better training horses than trying to woo women, Tywin had taken in the girl that had caught his eye.

Well, it hadn’t been entirely her doing. His two sons had been murmuring about her beauty, and a promise Tyrion had made to send her back to the North. 

Naturally, he despised his ungrateful youngest son whose birth should’ve never come to pass. There would always be something deeper, richer than hatred for Tyrion, but it was the sworn oath to bring her back to Winterfell that irked him beyond word. Who gave Tyrion the right to decide what happened to any of them? 

When he’d taken her into his arms, her blue eyes had widened into orbs, and he’d felt content for just a moment. The bastard Joffrey with a traitor father- _don’t lie to yourself you know who the father of the boy is-_ had never been right in the head. He would’ve torn the girl in two. 

_Sansa_

Pretty name for a pretty girl, he supposed, taking in the soft red hair and delicate features. 

Now, with her standing here in his chambers with the berating words of Cersei still lingering in the air, Tywin thought to himself. There were many ways this night could end; perhaps Cersei had been right, she’d snuck her way to try and offer her maidenhead. It wouldn’t be surprising if it were true.

Luckily, there was a part of Tywin that didn’t think it was true, that this one wasn’t a vindictive snake. 

Tywin left her by the closed door, striding to his looming desk and resuming the task before Cersei had interrupted. Another raven had come; whispers had started up again that the final and most failed Baratheon was on march through the North, having left the shambles of Dragonstone and boated up beyond reach. There was no real worry, but it still didn’t sit right with Tywin. The matters of sheep were not worth his time, but any challenge to the lion’s den must be snuffed out. 

Ravens would need to be sent to the North. All of the Houses had long since pledged under his rule, but those loyal to the Baratheon name still lingered in the shadows. Tywin would die before he allowed his rule to end because of _Stannis._

Deeply sighing, he carefully organized each piece of work into the iron desk, knowing this would need to be brought up at the next small council meeting. Once his desk was clear, he remembered the girl still standing by the door.

While he could’ve simply left her there to tremble in anticipation, he instead gave a simple command, “Sit.” 

He admired how fast she moved. Obedience was a lost trait in women, and he would not do with a wife who couldn’t listen. No good husband beat his wife, but insolence would not be tolerated.

Joanna had been a much harder woman at first; ignoring his commands for her to complete her marital duties, sneaking starving children treats better meant for the kennels, and even worse, hating Tywin. 

Their love had blossomed alongside the Weirwood tree, and it had infected his heart with a sickness that, even years after her death, still lingered like a ghost. No one could say he did not love Joanna, and now, he did not see a lady wife in this slip of a girl.

He didn’t see _his_ Joanna. 

But even Tywin could not admit that she wasn’t as venomous as the other women who’d stared at him, or as lustful. Perhaps, this was the time to put her to the test. 

“Why are you here, Lady Sansa? And I do hope you know that it would be unwise to lie to your King.”

Watching her shoulders tremble, he listened as she spoke. “Lord Tyrion did not lie, your Grace. My friend was most… displeased after tonight’s affairs, and I’ve found myself without a bed to sleep in for the night. Nothing else, your Grace.” 

“We’re alone, drop the titles.” He scoffed, “And what acts did you commit to displease your so-called friend?” 

Not a moment passed before she simply said, “I danced with you.” 

Foolish girl, thinking the other pathetic children that had been sent here were actually friendly for anything but selfish gain. People only talked and made deals to gain something, never out of the kindness of their hearts.

She’d learn it sooner or later, certainly. 

“Yes, you did. What did your friend say to you?” 

“She…she said I betrayed her by dancing with her future husband.” Sansa licked her dry lips. “Then she threw me out, and now I’m here.” 

Doing his best to hold back a laugh at the distasteful acts of spiteful women, he decided against asking which girl it was that had thrown her out. It wasn’t as though he cared.

Instead, his mind took a different course. 

“Aside from the lies your Septa has filled your head with, do you have any idea what is required of the woman I marry?” 

Sansa’s cheeks turned red, and she shook her head. 

“Of course you don’t, you’re a child,” glowered Tywin. “I’d have you thrown in the Black Cells for disturbing me with petty troubles amongst the other women fighting to carry my heirs.” 

Not allowing her to speak, his tone took a softer note, “If you were to marry you, your place would be right there.” Green eyes darted to the near bedchambers.

“A wife does not concern herself with anything but the life that will soon grow in her belly. But that does not mean I’ll settle for a wife with a head as empty as her current womb.” 

“So,” Tywin leaned forward, “Tell me, Lady Sansa, what House lies to the South of King’s Landing?” 

She answered faster than he’d expected. “Dorne.” 

“What goods do they provide for us in exchange for soldiers and protection?” 

“I believe they send exotic fruits and spices.” Her eyes lit up. “They send lemons to Winterfell every Spring; they are my favorite. Have you ever had a lemon cake?” 

The sheer innocence of the girl astounded Tywin. It was pleasing that she knew at least one other House and how they benefited the Capitol. Perhaps there was something aside from buzzing fruit flies in her mind. If she could know another…

“What other ally lies in the South?” 

“H-Highgarden, I believe?” 

More pleased by the second, he asked again “And what do the Tyrell’s provide the Capital with?” 

He took note in the dip of her brow, “Grains, I’d suppose. Their land is very fertile with forgiving weather.”

“If I may ask, how have you come to know this?” He’d never say it, but most simply women lacked the knowledge to even read a map. 

“My Father is Warden of the North. Should my brother, Robb, or I ever inherit the land, he’d want us to know where our enemies and allies lie. And my brother Jon likes to keep me well informed.” 

Finally, the girl was starting to appear more interesting every second. No matter how deep he searched his mind, no meeting in the chilled North had ever shown him this girl.

Maybe she’d just been locked away, and they knew with one look that Tywin would’ve simply taken her. She was very pretty, and her words weren’t laced with saccharine sweetness, meant to butter him as if a roll. 

“Hm,” he grunted.

It was getting late, and he’d seen enough of Sansa Stark to know how to move forward, not that he was going to tell her anything. It wasn’t as though she’d have a choice in the matter.

“You will sleep in here for the night.” Tywin stood, feeling her eyes on his imposing form. “Tomorrow you will break your fast with my son, Jamie. I doubt you’ve had the time to properly meet him.” 

Tywin strolled to the right side of the room, retrieving a key that hadn’t been used in over two decades. Luckily, the last time it had, the handmaidens had kept it ready for use. There was no time to think of who’d last used it, only turning to Sansa and inclining “In.” 

Sighing at her slow pace, he nodded down to her once she remained inside. “Sleep well, Lady Sansa. I do believe you’ll need it." With an audible _click,_ the door shut and Sansa gazed at the chambers that had once belonged to Lady Joanna so many years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment your thoughts!
> 
> ALSO...
> 
> I do have plans for jon snow *evil smirk*


	6. Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets Jamie, grows closer to Tyrion, and finds herself ensnared in Tywin. 
> 
> And across Westeros, world of Mance Rayder's death is spreading like wildfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a ton of anxiety posting this! I've had 90% of it ready for a while but was scared it sucked, but boo hoo I like it!
> 
> Also, I did get a comment concerning the timeline and I fully intended to make one of big events but... it was giving me a headache. Honestly, I'm writing this for fun, people. Once again, just try to immerse yourself in the story I'm creating because honestly, I'm not writing this for accuracy, I'm writing for fun. So, sorry to that user who asked. 
> 
> *alert more non canon plot things in this chapter I feel like I have to warn y'all when it happens alert*
> 
> Lastly, I'll definitly explain Cersei's history and other stuff in the future. Please, be patient! This fic isn't ending anytime soon and I'm trying to embody show, don't tell, so wait!

**_ Chapter 6: Intentions _ **

The aroma of sweet cheese flourished in the spring air, wafting and waving through the vast rose and lavender bushes, scurrying about the handmaidens and squires as they laid down dish after dish. Even for a meal as simple as this, King’s Landing, or King Tywin to be more precise, spared no expense. 

Bright luscious strawberries glistened with beads of water and tight thin-skinned green grapes hung deeply from their vines, aching to be plucked. Jugs of fresh squeezed pomegranate juicy sloshed from side to side, nearly spilling in the squire’s hands.

One of the best cheeses to be had was made from goat and sheep’s milk, and more than two dozen creamy blocks lay upon the spread. There was even cheese with blue spots in it, a righteous smell to it as well. 

Covering one corner of the table was cured meats, rabbit and duck, and a fresh quail lay in the kitchens at any lordships beck and call. Horsemeat was favored in Essos and luckily, had never taken to the public as much as the Dothraki.

That’s not to say that horses were slaughtered for desperate times in winter; people had to eat, and horses were abundant, for the most part. 

Sansa sat in one of the two chairs that had been placed near the spread better meant for a feast, and she smiled at every handmaiden and squire that passed by, even muttering to a few of them that it was simply too much for two people.

Ser Jamie was not a large man, and no man wanted a large wife. But each one had shaken their heads; seemingly, Tywin had made certain all of it was laid out for them, and would not see anything put back. 

It churned her stomach in a rotten way. People in the Capital starved while she was presented with more than enough cheese and fruit to feed all the bannerman in the North. 

“Ah! Lady Sansa.” 

She lurched to her feet and flattened down the front of her blue dress, glad that the handmaiden Shae had given her a new one for the occasion. Lady Joanna’s room had been beautiful but empty, and she’d felt chills upon slipping into the bed. Would it be her future rooms, or would she lie next to Tywin? 

Pushing those thoughts away for another time, she watched as Ser Jamie walked near with a kick in his step. He was different than her memory remembered. More muscle on his arms, hair more golden and full of light, but his smile now held genuine mirth instead of false care. This time, he looked less and less like his sister. 

She curtsied. “Ser Jamie. It is an honor to meet you.” 

“No need for formalities here, especially if you’re to be my future step-mother.” Sunlight reflected on his perfect white smile, and it nearly blinded her. “Come, sit. Let us talk.” 

Once they’d both picked a plate filled with fruits and cheese, Jamie took favor to the cured rabbit more than she, and he popped a grape into his mouth with a crunch, juices running down his chin.

Sansa, however, made an attempt to play the ladies part whilst keeping any stray juices from her face.

“You’re dismissed,” announced Jamie to the lingering servants and handmaidens. “It’s an honor to meet the girl who’s made Cersei angrier than I’ve ever seen. You do know she despises you, right? I don’t know how you did it.” 

“If I’m being honest, I don’t either.”

Much to Sana’s surprise, Jamie heaved a hearty laugh. “I think she was expecting Father to crawl for some little meek thing, but I don’t think that’s who you are. She can’t stand that people like you, Father and little Tyrion included.” 

“People… _like_ Cersei.” 

“You say it like it’s a question,” Jamie chided. “And you don’t have to defend her around me. I’m the only one who wouldn’t be beheaded for insulting the Former Queen Regent.” 

Sansa’s bite of bleu cheese topped with strawberries paused halfway to her mouth, “Former?”

Yes, Lord Tyrion had spitefully pointed out Cersei’s non-standing title, but it still piqued her curiosity as to why the eldest Lannister had been stripped of it in the first place. 

“The title of Queen Regent only holds value when one's child sits on the Throne and is still seen as unfit to rule. As far as we both know, none of Cersei’s children hold any ties to our Father outside of blood.” 

“But,” Sansa paused, thinking of the history lessons given by her Father. “Robert Baratheon did sit on the Throne, that must count for something. And Joffrey is Tywin’s grandson.” 

“Robert Baratheon was a traitor to our family,” Jamie spat. “My Father left him Regent in his place for four days, and in that small span of time, Robert named himself King of the Andals and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

There was little in the books not banished to the depths of the Citadel about Robert’s short time as King, if one could even call it that. It hadn’t been a true ruling, the people protested in the streets for the false king to be hung until dead. Except the deeply poor and wretched who hoped Robert could free them from the grips of hunger and poverty. 

“I love my sister, I truly do. But if she had not turned her back on our name, then she would’ve inherited the Throne. All of this”- he waved his hand over the luscious array of food, and Sansa too- “would never have had to happen if my sister hadn’t gotten her husband killed. She despises you, Sansa. And when you two marry, you will be Queen Regent, and she will be nothing.”

Jamie took a heavy sip from his goblet.

“Would his wife not inherit the Throne?”

Jamie smirked while glugging down pomegranate juice. “Ah, so you _do_ want to sit on the Iron Throne?” 

Realizing she’d fallen into his trap, Sansa backtracked, “No, not at all. I’m not fit to rule even one, no more than two Kingdoms. I’m just curious as to whether any children King Tywin has will take his place. I know if my Father were to die, my brother Robb would take his place, but here it does not seem as simple.” 

“Oh, it is that simple. But Father can barely stand to look at us anymore, so really, you have myself and the wretched two I call siblings to blame.”

Jamie forcefully chewed on a tough piece of hare. “It seems I woke up on the wrong side this morning, I don’t mean to sour your mood, Lady Sansa.” 

“It’s alright, Jamie.” She smiled. Though upon closer inspection, she noted the dark circles under his eyes. “Is something troubling you? You seem a bit more demure than I recall.”

Instead of laying out his follies and pains, Jamie shook his head. “It is nothing, Sansa. The work of a Kingsuard never ends.” 

It was a blessing that Jamie knew how to hold a conversation with Sansa; he jabbed at her Northern upbringing while similarly detailing his growing up in the South. There had always been an animosity between the three siblings, and she could see it hurt Jamie to detail the ways in which his sister longed for Lord Tyrion’s death.

Yes, Arya had spent years tugging on her hair and sneering at the finely embroidered dresses that Sansa loved to create, but they didn’t _loathe_ each other. 

“There was a point where it became normal for us to despise my little brother.” Jamie lightly hummed after biting into another juicy grape. “How is it you’ve taken to him so well? Most only stay around to gawk and stare.” 

“Since I’ve arrived, he’s been nothing but kind to me.”

“Of course he has. You’re a beautiful young woman who doesn’t cry at the sight of him.” he shrugged. “That’s enough to have him groping your skirts.” 

Sansa felt her face grow warm in anger, “He’s done nothing but show me kindness, which is more than I can say your sister.” She regretted the words faster than they slipped out. 

“Has she done something to you?” Jamie inquired. At her dubious look, he begged, “Please, you must share. Secrets can be your friend and your enemy in a place like this. I’d hate to be your enemy, Sansa, I am growing to like you.” 

Against any rational thought, she carefully explained the way Cersei had berated her in the Throne Room, making frightening threats that she, no doubt, wanted very much to see through. Up close, his expressions mimicked Cersei. Brows folded the same and lips pulled back to showcase pearly whites.

There was none of Tywin in him, not a sharp tongue or cold edge to be seen. 

Once her story had been told, Jamie leaned back in disbelief, but Sansa refused to believe Cersei had never done something similar. He ran a hand through his locks, sighing, “I knew she never approved of our Father’s plans but I didn’t think she had it in her to do that.” 

Sansa looked into his eyes, raising a brow, silently asking _do you really think that?_

To which Jamie let out a heartless laugh. “You’re right, you’re right. But be that as it may, I will apologize on her behalf. In her own way, she means well. Our Father raised us to protect our family legacy, and she’s scared of what your presence may bring.” 

“And what exactly does she think I’ll do?” 

“What you’re here for, and something she’s never been able to obtain.” Jamie chewed a piece of rabbit in his mouth, swirling it around his cheeks. “Our Father’s love.” 

“He’s-” her breath caught in her throat, forcing out,

“Your Father has barely shown an ounce of affection, nor care.” 

“Since Mother passed, he’s rarely been known to care for anyone but himself. But you, Lady Sansa, you are…” 

He trailed off. She watched him easily reach back, over and across the table to pluck up one delicate square, doused with powdered sugar and smelling of the sweetest fruit in the region. 

“These are your favorite, are they not?” Jamie smiled with teeth. “I find it odd that Father saw to these being made fresh this morning, and is looking into planting lemon trees along our shore.” 

The apple of her cheeks began to blossom as he went on, “And is it true you slept in the rooms meant for the Queen last night? I doubt he even allows himself in there since…” 

“No matter, you can believe what you want but I know my Father well enough to see when he’s begun to care for someone. You’ve only just begun to crack at his edges, but I don’t doubt that you’ll hold him in the palm of your hand soon enough.”

“And?” she ground out. 

“And?”

“Will you turn your back on me once he gives me his heart?” _If,_ she meant to say, _If he gives me his heart._

“That depends, Sansa.” The last bite of lemon cake left sugar on his lips. “If you turn your back on _me_.” 

* * *

Slowly but surely, maidens began to bid farewell to King’s Landing. False tears and forlorn cries rang through the halls as one after another, the young girls were sent to their homeland, barely having even spoken to the King. In fact, no one had seen him since the Welcome Feast. 

Everyone aside from Sansa, that is. 

Following the meal with Jamie that had left her slightly shaken and full of exotic cheese and one too many lemon cakes, two bustling handmaidens had ushered her to new chambers. Thankfully, they were nowhere near Margaery, who Sansa assumed was either on her way back to Highgarden or still somehow attempting to seduce Tywin.

Located high above the grounds, overlooking the far away dome of the Great Sept of Balor, were her new rooms. 

It felt wrong to be gifted such nice chambers; “This is too much, really,” but the servant had vehemently shaken her head, “King Tywin insists, M’lady.” 

At the moment, Sansa sat perched on her windowsill, watching the people below. She lightly fingered the pleats of her cream skirt. The material was soft and light, perfect for allowing a light breeze to cool her legs when the sun grew too bright.

It hugged her wide hips and stuck to her curves, cupping her soft breasts gently. She felt like a woman wearing it, and felt the eyes of men and women alike watching with hard eyes. 

It had been one of the first gifts from King Tywin… at least, she assumed they were from him. The giggling handmaidens never said where it came from, only that it was meant for her and her alone.

The mysterious gifts ranged from jewelry with rubies and sapphires, more clothes styled in Lannister gold, and best, plates of lemon cakes after every feast. 

After the fifth consecutive night nibbling on sweet lemon cakes, she groaned to Shae, “I fear I’ll no longer fit my clothes if I eat one more bite.” 

Shae always snickered “He would not complain, my Lady.” 

Eventually, upon glimpsing a full moon above the Godswood of King’s Landing, Sansa realized she’d been away from home for longer than anyone had thought. In fact, she’d been certain that her and Jon would’ve already been back at Winterfell. 

“Where is my brother, your Grace?” she’d asked Ser Jamie, stumbling upon him on his way out of the Red Keep. She was still not allowed outside of the castle walls; King’s orders. 

“The bastard, right?” He uselessly shrugged. “If I see him, you’ll be the first to know.” 

Maybe Cersei had killed him already, or they’d ridden back to Winterfell and abandoned her. Or perhaps they’d found a woman or two to keep them company. No, not Jon, or even Sandor. The youngest Clegane had vowed to the Warden of the North to protect her with his life, and the scarred man took his vows to the grave. And Jon would never betray her. 

He was incapable of such a thing.

“May I send a raven home, Shae?” Sansa sat on the edge of her seat, hands folded below the table while the beaming sun warmed her skin. “I hope I’ve not worried my Mother to an early grave.” 

Sadly, Shae shook her head, but offered- “Go to your King and ask him. He will not say no, I assure you.” 

Thankfully, Tywin was in his chamber behind the looming desk with his hand scribbling away at a long line of parchment. His brow dipped down low, turning his face into a grimace. Only when he was working on important matters did he appear much older, harsh lines growing stronger and the sneer on his face dipping deeper. 

“What?” Tywin asked with a clipped tone.

Sansa made sure to stand up straight with her head held high, wanting to appear confident even when he wasn’t looking.

“I want to send a raven home to Winterfell.” Slowly, his hand stopped writing. “Would that be alright?” 

Instead of addressing her, his quill resumed scribbling and his eyes remained down on the parchment. She deeply breathed in through her nose, looking around the room while trying to not tap her feet. 

_Patience is a virtue,_ Septa Mordane said, and when one was before a King, it was all too true. 

“Do you know of the King Beyond the Wall?” 

His question took her by surprise, but she recovered enough to recite the words her Father had said before, “Mance Rayder. Once a man of the Night’s Watch, he was left beyond the Wall for dead where he was saved by Free Folk, who claimed him their leader.” 

Tywin hummed. “Smart.” 

Finally, after putting away his work and leaning back with a sigh, he met her waiting eyes. “Castle Black needs a new Lord Commander.” 

“Has something happened to Ser Alliser? He’s been Lord Commander since before my birth.” 

“Yes,” Tywin ground out. “He was. But killing Mance Rayder saw to him being skinned alive by Wildlings. Only a fool would single handedly destroy our alliance beyond the Wall.” 

Sansa had never been to Castle Black, or Beyond the Wall, but she’d heard things of Free Folk and the ways in which they lived. Murdering when it suited them, stealing women when they pleased, and only knowing the frozen winds of the North.

In some twisted way, Sansa enjoyed hearing about the Free Folk, and had dreamt of herself being stolen by a fair knight. 

“Who will become the Lord Commander now? Someone must try and make peace, undo the wrongs that’ve been done.”

“There is not a single man in Castle Black that I trust enough to find peace with our enemy.” Tywin’s mouth curved downwards.

“I’ve no doubt that they’re praising Ser Alliser’s name while they feast, thinking he’s done them a blessing.” 

“Perhaps you could send a Lord to negotiate new terms with whoever has taken Mance’s place. There must be someone-” 

Tywin shot up from his chair, cutting her off. “No one willingly takes the Black. Not even thieves and liars would condemn themselves to a life where they must take no wife and bear no kin. There is no amount of gold in Casterly Rock or the Iron Bank to convince an innocent man to face a group of savages.” 

She meant to say _they are not savages_ but meekly replied, “Then what will you do?” 

Instead of answering, he skirted around the desk and loomed over her, green wildfire eyes glaring down into her sapphire blues. The more time she’d been here, the less scary he’d become. She’d even dared to think that Tywin was decently _attractive._ The Queen’s rooms that lingered off to the side still held the smell of her on the pillows.

Once they’d emitted the stench of iron in Joanna’s blood. Now, they only emulated the soft scent of Sansa. 

“Do you miss them?” 

When she nodded, he scoffed, “Speak.” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“And what do you think you’ll gain from sending them word of your stay here?” 

“I…” she thought for a moment. “I imagine it would do well to sate any of their worries. My sister, Arya, must miss me dearly, and I’ve never been away from home this long. My Mother is known to worry herself sick for her children.”

“And you expect that their worries will disappear with one letter?” 

“No, but it will bring them some form of peace until I return to Winterfell.” 

Tywin’s eyes crinkled at the sides. “And when exactly do you think you’ll be returning to the North?” 

“I suppose it would whenever you please, Lord Tywin.” 

“And what would you tell the Warden of the North if I thought it best you remained here at my side?” 

Sansa attempted to keep her calm as the conversation between Jamie echoed in her ears like a mantra. The Lannister Kingsguard had said that Tywin already cared for her.

And while many thought her a slow learner, even before this moment in front of the King- his gifts and lemon cakes were obvious enough- it felt almost sweet that he was trying, in his own way, to woo her. 

With a speck of courage in her heart, Sansa lifted a hand to gently rest on his covered elbow. “If that is what pleases you, I would have no objections.” 

Tywin ground out a “Good” and strode back to his desk, sitting down. “Tell me, Lady Sansa, if you were in my position, how would you find a new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” 

It was hard to think when he was staring at her with a glare that rivaled the sun’s glow, but a part of her wanted to show him that her head wasn’t as empty as Cersei assumed. 

“When my Father needed men to join him on a visit outside of the North, especially if it were somewhere like the Dreadfort or the Iron Islands, a tournament would be held. The winner would take home wealth and the title, but he would also ride beside my Father on his journey. As long as the champion survived the trip there and back, they returned home a lucky home.” 

“Hm,” Tywin said. “Go on.” 

“There’s not much else, I’m afraid. If you were to do something like that here, in King’s Landing, what you’ve said is true about the Wall, then whoever wins cannot know prior to their fight what remains in store.” 

For a few minutes, Tywin said nothing. His eyes remained trained on Sansa, his jaw every so often tensing. She could hardly read his face. 

“Once you’ve written what you like, have your handmaiden bring it here for me to read. I won’t have you sending Capitol secrets out without my know how.” She nodded. “Leave.” 

She’d slipped half way out the door when he uttered her name again, turning back to listen. 

“You will join me in my solar for your evening meal until I say otherwise.” 

She ignored the fluttering butterflies in her belly, tickling her sides. His eyes had already begun to scribble on a new parchment when she shut the door. Later that day, Shae presented her with more parchment than necessary and the finest quills, identical to the ones Tywin used in shape and size. 

* * *

**_Godswood, King’s Landing_ **

“And how is my Father treating you, Lady Sansa? Well, I’d hope. You still have a flush to your cheeks and different skirts every passing day.” 

It was a surprise to all when Sansa was spotted more than once beside Lord Tyrion, laughing softly at his harsh words and scolding him for his wretched jokes. They looked a perfect pair, even if Sansa looked a giant next to the Imp. No one questioned their closeness, but at one of the nightly dinners in Tywin’s Solar, the King uttered, 

_“You’ve taken a liking to Tyrion.” There was a hint of something Sansa could not place in his tone. “Of all my children, I least expected him to attempt to gain your affections.”_

_“I assure you, Tywin, he is not the Lannister who’s caught my eye.”_

Her words were enough to settle the King for now, but she hoped jealousy would not be a problem in their future. There were too many men she cared for; Robb, Jon- _Theon, don’t forget Theon, what’s dead may never die-_ Sandor, Father, all of them special in her heart. 

At the moment, Tyrion sat beside her under the Great Oak Tree that dominated their Godswood. It was laced with smokeberry vines, and red dragon’s breath covered the base of the fierce tree. The aura it emitted was opposite the Weirwood Tree of home; theirs harbored a face of the Gods that bleed for the sins of the good and evil, while this tree remained blank. It loomed over Blackwater Bay, and the sound of rushing water joined in their conversation. 

“He’s sent me gifts nearly everyday, and I join him in his solar every night for our evening meal.” 

“Oh?” Tyrion said. 

She offered, “Jamie says he seeks my affections.” 

“My brother was never one to understand the wills and wants of any woman but our dear sister.” 

“They have a… special relationship, don’t they?” Sansa hummed. “Your brother means well.” 

Tyrion ran a hand down the side of his face, groaning, “Jamie wouldn’t know wellness if it hit him in the face. Never the smartest man, my brother. It wasn’t a surprise when he begged to be a Kingsguard.” 

The bare branches of the Oak Tree shuddered in the wind. 

“They still call him Kingslayer in the North,” Sansa said. “I’ve heard stories of men stripped of their titles for uttering the word.”

Tyrion found this funny and snickered.

“They call him that in the North, the South, and I daresay, they call him Kingslayer all the way in Braavos. If it were not true, it would not stick better than horse shit on my shoes.” 

They both listened to the waves crashing against the Red Keep’s walls, eyes trained on the red flower of dragon’s breath that had yet to bloom. 

“May I ask you something, Lord Tyrion?” 

“I suppose you may.” 

Her knuckles turned white against the stark blue of her dress, “My Father told me that Tywin killed Robert Baratheon after the four day siege, that he was the one who sat on the Iron Throne with traitors blood still warm on his hands.” 

Tyrion, who’d worn a smirk during their talk, allowed his face to fall flat. “And?” 

“Tywin…” she shook her head, trying to right her thoughts. “I’ve sat with him for days now, hearing how he plans alliances with people he despises. It almost frightens me how his mind works one step ahead of everyone else.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.” 

“But,” she added, “I don’t think he killed Robert. He would’ve poisoned him or-or had him struck by a boar in the woods.” 

Realizing she’d made a fool of herself, Sansa waved a hand in the air. “Forgive me, Lord Tyrion. I fear I’ve begun to speak out of turn.” 

“Oh no, Lady Sansa.” Tyrion smiled once more. “You think my sister and Father are covering up for Jamie, right? It is a fun accusation and I’m not going to say it holds no merit, but then again, there are eyes and ears everywhere these days.” 

“Then let us speak no more of this.” 

“I agree.” 

Off in the distance, they spotted two maid’s snickering back and forth, carrying baskets of sullied dresses and breeches. The way they laughed with mirth, gossiped back and forth, made Sansa green with envy. Aside from Shae, there was no one here to laugh or share secrets with. 

Tyrion despised the silence, so he offered; “I’m content to see you at peace with your new home. I knew from the moment I saw you that my Father would find something he liked in you.” 

“He’s not chosen a wife yet, I could still be sent home.” Sansa reminded him. “My family hasn’t sent a raven yet, but I know they miss me.” 

“I don’t doubt that at all. But as I assume my brother has told you, and possibly even my Father, you will not be leaving King’s Landing anytime soon. It would do you better to start picturing your wedding dress than dreams of the North.”

A harsh breeze ruffled the pleats of her dress, chilling the thin material covering her arms. Even the South could not escape the winds from the North. 

She began to rise, “Perhaps I should retire for the afternoon-” 

“Do you know what the last words were of the man who stood beside Robert?” Tyrion looked up at her, watching the tree branches make a halo behind her head. “I’ll never forget what he spat before he lost his head.” 

Sansa shook her head. 

“Once a Kingslayer, _always_ a Kingslayer.” 

* * *

**_Dreadfort_ **

Far away from Winterfell, into the darker deeper regions of the North, lie the Dreadfort. 

It’s walls rose hundreds of feet of grey stones- impenetrable- and only one entrance lay at the front gates. There were no stories of a siege on such a grim place, and its walls housed that of House Bolton’s for decades.

They were a fearsome house known for malice and cruelty, war and viciousness. Roose Bolton, Lord Bolton, was often described as ‘more beast than man with a voice softer than silk’ or even simply a cold man, one not prone to japes. Most hide when he enters a room, as most should. 

His son of first blood was Domeric Bolton, son of Roose’s long dead first wife, Bethany. The heir to the Dreadfort had not been raised in the North; instead squiring in the Vale for years before returning home, which was why he was kinder and softer than his Father.

Instead of sneering, he smiles. Where some would find pleasure in flaying, he finds joy in reading. Most thought him simple. 

Lastly, in House Bolton was Ramsay Snow, the bastard of the Dreadfort. Ramsay was… frightening, to say the least. He flayed, killed, hunted, murdered, and laughed with blood on his teeth when men begged for their life.

All were frightened of him, and none dared to stare too long at his lover, or better titled, bedwarmer. 

Roose Bolton sat behind his desk, watching the child whimper in fear. 

“What’s he done?” 

The boy gulped. 

“He-he… he killed my sister, my Lord. He came for her not three days ago and she hasn’t come home. She’d been sick for a little while; I think that’s why he did it. She was just sick, m’lord, and I know it was him. Those dogs he had must’ve torn her to pieces, I swear, m’lord, it was him.” 

Letting out a deep sigh, Roose said “But you have no proof.” 

“But-” the boy looked distraught. “I saw him take her from ‘er bed, m’lord. No one else’s seen Lyla for days.”

Tears began to fall down his red cheeks. “Please, m’lord, she was all I had.”

There was nothing worse than a sniveling peasant. For a moment, he contemplated throwing him to the dungeons for Ramsay to play with. But this child had had enough of that; “You will be compensated for your loss. That will be all.” 

“But-But-” The door opened and Locke, one of the many men who praised the violence of House Bolton, quickly dragged away the crying boy, thankfully shutting the door behind.

Roose paid no mind to the sounds of scuffling and yelps, making quick work of reading the few messages he’d received overnight. Mindless gossip from other houses vying for more land, gold and whores. 

Locke, much like a snake, slithered back in. “He won’t be a problem, Lord Bolton. I’ve made sure of it.” 

Instead of offering mindless goodwill at the lackey, Roose said, “Find me my son, I need to speak with him. And Ramsay as well.” 

Thankfully, Locke was fast as he was smart, ushering in Domeric first, then Ramsay.

“Father,” Ramsay said, smiling with sharp, white teeth. “I was just about to leave for a hunt, but I suppose this is more important.” 

Ignoring his bastard, Roose addressed his son. “Two nights from now, you will ride for the Capitol. Once there, you will do everything in your power to have Tywin announce you as the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” 

Domeric barely had a moment to breath before Ramsay exploded with fiery rage. “Send me, Father!” he begged. “I can make you proud, I will do our family name the justice it deserves. I can give you Castle Black, if you would let me.” 

Domeric, who’d remained silent, spoke up softly, “Are you sure about this, Father? Perhaps, my brother is a better choice for this journey. I doubt that even if King Tywin were convinced to give me the title, I would not last long on the Wall. Ramsay,” he gestured to his left, “should go in my place.” 

_Good,_ Ramsay wished to spit. 

“I’ve made up my mind.” Roose said with finality. “It would be an insult to the Lannister’s to send my bastard for such a respected position. And besides, the King is looking for a new wife and perhaps you could take your pick of the ones still left.”

“Why can’t I find a wife?” grumbled Ramsay.

Roose breathed a laugh through his nose, “You have your prize, Ramsay. Does he not make you happy?” 

Domeric shifted uneasily as a wicked, sinister smirk grew on Ramsay’s, the ocean eyes of his half-brother shining brightly.

“You’re right, Father,” said Ramsay, “he makes me happier than any pretty southern whore.” 

“Good.” Roose looked to Domeric, “Two nights, my son. Make me proud to call you the heir to the Dreadfort.” 

With a quick but hesitant nod, Domeric left his father’s solar, Ramsay staying behind. The two men held a devious stare, and Roose broke it first to utter, “You’re becoming sloppy, Ramsay. Another boy came today.” 

“And what did he want?” Ramsay asked with not a care in the world. 

It only further angered Roose that his bastard was this careless; “If you intend to act like a rabid dog, you’ll be slaughtered and served as pig feed like one should. Or perhaps, I’ll withhold the creature in your chambers until you learn restraint.” 

Some twisted part of Roose enjoyed the grotesque look that crossed his bastards face. The boy forgot who was in charge far too often. 

“He’s _mine,_ ” growled Ramsay, feral and rabid. 

“And so he shall remain,” Roose said. “I allow you to act as you do because you have my blood in your veins, but even blood can run thin. Do watch yourself, Ramsay.” 

“I will, Father.” 

The door slammed shut behind the bastard, and Roose returned to his work. 

* * *

**_The Black Cells_ **

Men had begun to disappear- there one moment and gone the next. Previously full cells lined with aching hungry men, now only held rats and mice eager for a meal. 

It was uncertain where they disappeared to. Maybe they were being sent home on horse or ship, or thrown into the pit of Blackwater Bay to feed the skulking fish below. Or perhaps nothing at all. 

Loras Tyrell had been singing an unsightly tune of a fair maiden with the thimble in her laces meant to stab any man who tried for her virtue, and Jon had opened his mouth to demand he shut up, when light broke through the dark abyss. It burned Jon’s eyes, just having become accustomed to the darkness that never seemed to begin or end, and even Sandor let out an audible grunt of surprise. 

Loras, however, continued humming along, even tapping a beat against vile stained ground. His locks had turned greasy; once they’d attracted women, now they summon flies. 

Jon had never met all the Lannister’s, and the ones he had, had been pure happenstance. But the gentle footsteps echoing through the air were not that of Jamie Lannister, they lacked the clang of armor or the lack of speech in a dwarf.

As the light grew nearer, he nudged Sandor, but the other man had already fallen back asleep. And the horrendous song had changed under Loras’s breath, now something softer and less jaunty. 

Jon knew he looked filthy and smelt twice as worse- his belly grumbled in hunger and his skull cried for water and a proper bed- but he stared up Cersei Lannister the same, her beautiful face staring back through the iron bars. He still cursed her name, she was the reason all of them had been trapped, and now she had to gal to stare down a feral wolf. 

Perhaps it was because the wolf was behind bars, unable to snap its jaws.

“Lord Snow,” she crooned so sweetly, like a mother to her babe. “You’ve seen better days, I imagine. If I’d know this is what you’d become, you would've been given proper lodgings for your stay in the Capitol.” 

“You put us here.” 

“I did.” 

Jon finally met her eyes head on, “Why? None of us deserve to be here. It was under your Father’s orders that we arrive with our sisters, and you’ve imprisoned us.” 

An unsightly emotion crossed her face, curving the sides of her lips and strengthening the dip in her brow. “You deserve much worse than this, I’m afraid. But I’m not here as your enemy, bastard.” 

“Then tell me, why are you here?” 

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I’m here to make amends with you. If you are to truly be by good brother, then it’s only fair we play the part.” 

Jon’s heart sunk to the pit of his empty belly. If Cersei were telling the truth, then that meant his sweet sister had fallen into the lion’s clutches. “You’re lying,” he snarled with all the ferociousness of a direwolf. 

Sansa needed to be protected, not torn apart at the hands of the King. “Sansa would never-” 

“Nothing has been set in stone, but I know my Father better than anyone.” Cersei leaned forward, nearly touching the filthy cell bars, and she smiled at Jon. “Your little dove will never see Winterfell again.” 

Before he could comprehend her words, Jon was up and grabbing the cell bars, snarling at Cersei. “You’re a monster.” 

“I know.” Cersei’s face dropped. “But I’m not here to speak of what-if’s and the future of your pretty sister. I want to speak about where you fit in with all of this. If you plan to ever see the light of day again, or ever touch your sweet Sansa.” 

He glowered, “What do you want?” 

“I want you to promise me something, Snow. And that is something I do not take lightly, especially with bastards.” The lantern's light twinkled in her eyes.

“You will not leave King’s Landing until I say otherwise, and when the time comes, you will return the favor to me. If you decide not to, or perhaps attempt to steal your sister away in the dead of night, there will be nowhere you can hide from me. I’m not asking much, but it is enough, for now.” 

“Why?” glowered Jon. “I have nothing to give.” 

“On the contrary, you have everything to give. And soon enough, you will.” 

When the light was gone and Jon began to regret what he’d done, Sandor spoke. 

“What in the fucking hell did you just do?” 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Jon pleaded into the darkness. “I don’t trust her, but I need to see Sansa. I need to see that she’s okay.” 

“The little bird can take care of herself. You should stick to worrying about yourself.” 

In the distance, the sound of footsteps clanged against the ground. 

“I hope you have a plan, Snow. I wouldn’t trust a Lannister if you paid me. And you just sold your soul to the worst bitch in Westeros.” Sandor sat up, glaring through the darkness. 

“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped. “I know what I’ve just done. But…” 

_I had to,_ he whimpered inside, standing when one of the Kingsguard who’d thrown him here in the first place smirked from the cell door.

“Come along bastard, and you too, mutt. ‘For I change my mind.” 

From the adjacent room, Loras Tyrell waved to his friends. “Farewell, my companions. May our paths cross again.” 

“Fuckin' hope not,” Sandor muttered under his breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Because of life/school/other writing, hopefully one update every two weeks!


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